Poetry Archives

Glimm’ring twilight things are these,
Visions of the end of night.
Truth, thou lightest them, I wis,
Only with a distant light,

Whitening through the hated shade
In such grudging dim degrees,
One must doubt if they be made
By the moon among the trees,

Or if these uncertain ghosts
Shall take body bye and bye,
And uniting with the hosts
Tented by the azure sky,

Framed by Nature’s setting meet,—
Offer up in one accord
From the heart’s ecstatic heat,
Incense to the living Lord!