XII
Psalm of the Day
A something in a summer’s day,As slow her flambeaux burn away,Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon,—An azure depth, a wordless tune,Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer’s nightA something so transporting bright,I clap my hands to see;
Then veil my too inspecting face,Lest such a subtle, shimmering graceFlutter too far for me.
The wizard-fingers never rest,The purple brook within the breastStill chafes its narrow bed;
Still rears the East her amber flag,Guides still the sun along the cragHis caravan of red,
Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,But never deemed the dripping prizeAwaited their low brows;
Or bees, that thought the summer’s nameSome rumor of deliriumNo summer could for them;
Or Arctic creature, dimly stirredBy tropic hint,—some travelled birdImported to the wood;
Or wind’s bright signal to the ear,Making that homely and severe,Contented, known, before
The heaven unexpected came,To lives that thought their worshippingA too presumptuous psalm.