Poetry Archives

The low-voiced girls that go
 In gardens of the Lord,
Like flowers of the field they grow
 In sisterly accord.

Their whispering feet are white
 Along the leafy ways;
They go in whirls of light
 Too beautiful for praise.

And in their band forsooth
 Is one to set me free—
The one that touched my youth—
 The one God gave to me.

She kindles the desire
 Whereby the gods survive—
The white ideal fire
 That keeps my soul alive.

Now at the wondrous hour,
 She leaves her star supreme,
And comes in the night’s still power,
 To touch me with a dream.

Sibyl of mystery
 On roads unknown to men,
Softly she comes to me,
 And goes to God again.