Xv

The snowy flutter of a hand Seems beckoning in the morning mist, And from the mist a jewelled wrist Of dew now waves us a command: And in the skies, behold! the Land Of Far-away-beyond-the-dawn, Where, crowned with roses wild and wan, The Futures of the World speed on.

Along the eve a fiery arm Now points us to the waning west, And all the sorrow, that oppressed Our hearts once, straight becomes a charm Of beauty, whose dim spells transform The Present to the Long-ago, All grief to joy,--or seeming so,-- We see through thaumaturgic glow.