TWILIGHT DREAMS by ANONYMOUS

THEY come in the quiet twilight hour,
When the weary day is done,
And the quick light leaps from the glowing heaps
Of wood on the warm hearthstone.

When the household sounds have died away,
And the rooms are silent all,
Save the clock's brief tick, and the sudden click
Of the embers as they fall;

They come, those dreams of the twilight hour,
To me with their noiseless tread,
A tearful band by the guiding hand
Of a grave-eyed spirit led.

There is no voice within the hall,
No footstep on the floor;
The children's laughter is hushed, there is
No hand at the parlor door.

Like fingers tapping eagerly
Against the shuttered frame,
Where the trailing rose its long branch throws,
Beat the great drops of rain.

But my heart heeds not the rustling leaves,
Nor the rain-fall's fitful beat,
Nor the wind's low sigh as it hurries by
On its pauseless path and fleet;

For now in the dusk they gather round,
The visions of the past,
Arising slow in the dim red glow
By the burning pine-brands cast.

My brow is calm as with the touch
Of an angel's passing wing;
They breathe no word, yet my soul is stirred
By the messages they bring.

Some in their grasp impalpable
Bear Eden's cultured flowers,
That sprang in gloom from the tear-bathed tomb
Of hope's long-buried hours.

Some from the font of memory,
Lasting, and pure, and deep,
Bring waters clear, though many a year
Has saddened their first fresh sweep;

And some in their hands of shadow bear,
From the shrine of prayerful thought,
A fragrance blest to the stricken breast,
With balm and healing fraught.

The night wears on, the hearth burns low,
The dreams have passed away;
But the heart and brow are strenghtened now
For the toil of coming day.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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