ODE TO THE SETTING SUN

The wailful sweetness of the violin

Floats down the hushed waters of the wind;

The heart-strings of the throbbing harp begin

To long in aching music. Spirit-pined,

In wafts that poignant sweetness drifts, until

The wounded soul ooze sadness. The red sun,

A bubble of fire, drops slowly toward the hill,

While one bird prattles that the day is done.

O setting Sun, that as in reverent days

Sinkest in music to thy smoothed sleep,

Discrowned of homage, though yet crowned with rays,

Hymned not at harvest more, though reapers reap:

For thee this music wakes not. O deceived,

If thou hear in these thoughtless harmonies

A pious phantom of adorings reaved,

And echo of fair ancient flatteries!

Yet, in this field where the Cross planted reigns,

I know not what strange passion bows my head

To thee, whose great command upon my veins

Proves thee a god for me not dead, not dead!

For worship it is too incredulous,

For doubt — oh, too believing-passionate!

What wild divinity makes my heart thus

A fount of most baptismal tears?— Thy straight