The Promise
What wonder of what hope do you enfold,
Whose eyes are all filled with futurity?
What shape of more than beauty would you mould
With desire’s strength out of the dim to—be?
Your bosom is the haunt of holy fears.
Shadows are all about you, whispering
Deep words and glorious names from the full years;
But like the stars in heaven your pulses sing
Of a voice sweeter than all tones yet heard;
Of a heart richer than the summer’s store;
Of earth awakened from old bonds and spurred
To run a new race for her conqueror.
You wait, with thoughts all glowing, like the Night;
And in you buds the flower, the marvel, Light.
