Vision.

He went but faltr'ngly among the stars,
Nor could he see them, for the light they gave
Dazzled his eyes and made him truly blind.
He could no longer see at early dark
The tender swaying flowers who softly mark
The dear green earth, and trembling, lie,
Close pressed to her bosom till they die.
The blue-rimmed, brooding pools where Silence sleeps,
And the lost years, which Quiet holds and keeps,
And the far hills, half hidden in the rain—
All these were gone and could not come again.
So he had lost that which he most desired
And he went stumbling onwards, dazed and tired,
And from the brilliant place went wearily,
Leaving behind him stars he could not see.
And far down in the valley, where the grass
Made a soft carpet for his feet to pass
Down there, among the lowly mint and thyme
He paused a while and heard a birdnot chime.
He turned and saw a flower among the green,
He knelt and touched its softness and its sheen,
He looked and saw the misted hills afar,
And looking upwards, he beheld a Star!

—Isobel Andrews

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