REVELATION

Walking these long, late twilights of the Spring,

Where all the fret of life seems nothing worth,

And grief, itself, a half-forgotten thing,

Less keen than these cool odours of the earth,—

I sometimes think we find the secret gate

That gives on gardens of enchanted light,

Restoring glories that we lost of late,

To quiet wisdom and more certain sight.

A holier mood will haunt our stubborn will,

Till we shall see revealments through the grass,

And stop, abashed, before a daffodil,

A shining weed, a stone on ways we pass,

Stand with bared head before the evening star,

And know these holy things for what they are.