THE DEAD DAY

The West builds high a sepulchre

Of cloudy granite and of gold.

Where twilight's priestly hours inter

The day like some great king of old,

A censer, rimmed with silver fire,

The new moon swings above his tomb;

While, organ-stops of God's own choir,

Star after star throbs in the gloom.

And night draws near, the sadly sweet —

A nun whose face is calm and fair —

And kneeling at the dead day's feet

Her soul goes up in silent prayer.

In prayer, we feel through dewy gleam

And flowery fragrance, and — above

All Earth — the ecstasy and dream

That haunt the mystic heart of love.