Visions

I READ the wonder-pages of the worldAnd see across them slowly goThe marshalled hosts of long-lost yester-years,Their flag afloat or trailing low.The poet or historian spins for meFull many a tale of truth and grace,But—'twixt my eyes and their clear-printed pageThere steals the vision of your face.

For me a singer opens wide the realmWhere mystic shapes of music throng,And all the glories of celestial choirsDrift by me on enchanted song.And then—I cannot tell you how or why—The music dies of its own choiceAnd in the place of pealing organ notes,Heart all a-throb, I hear your voice.

Through dim-lit galleries I softly moveAnd see the scenes some master brushHas made to live again, and on my soulThere falls a sweet and solemn hush;For though, each canvas holds a dream inspiredThat lures me with artistic wile,It fades to nothingness, and in its placeI catch the radiance of your smile.