Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18.djvu/584

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HE unresting lines, where oceans end,

Are traced by shifting surf and sand;

As pallid, moonlit fingers blend

The dreamlight of the ghostly land.

No eye can tell where Love's last ray

Fades to the sky of colder light;

No ear, when sounds that vexed the day

Cease mingling with the holier night.

As bells, which long have failed to swing

In lonely towers of crumbling stone,

Through far eternal spaces ring,

With semblance of their ancient tone.

The lightning, quivering through the cloud,

Weaves warp and woof from sky to earth,

In mist that seems a mortal's shroud,

In light that hails an angel's birth.

Thought vainly strives, with life's dull load,

To mount through ether rare and thin;

Fond eyes pursue the spirit's road

To heaven, and dimly gaze therein.

In battle's travail-hour, a host

Writhes in the throes of deadly strife.

One flash! One groan! A startled ghost

Is born into the eternal life.

Dear wife and children! Now I fly

Forth from my soldier camp to you!

Blue ridge and river hurry by

My weary eyes, in quick review.

Long have I waited. How and when

My furlough came is mystery.

I dreamed of charging with my men,—

A dream of glorious history!

To you I fly on Love's strong wing;

My courser needs no armed heel:

And yet anew the bugles ring,

And wake me to the crash of steel.