Dim lies my path, the eve is very still:
Kine are reposing in the meadow grass,
The nightingale has ceased the poignant thrill,
Silent the village street, and no wains pass: far in the West
Day’s last warm shimmer wanes, above the wold
Alone stare glistens, like a lamp of gold, O’er earth at rest.
Past a grey, ivy-vestured church I stray,
Toward the garden that I love so well,
Whose flowers are fadeless, and where night and day
Are merged into a morn of endless spell, in "peaceful home."
The blue-flamed wraith-lights flicker in the dews—
I ope the ancient lych-gate ’neath the yews, And musing roam.
My Eden this, of all earth’s spots most dear,
Easeful oasis, ’yond Time’s arid shore:
How many cherished ones are sleeping here,
Whose slumber once I broke but may no more... So sweet their rest,
I would not re-awaken, if I could,
And could not re-awaken if I would, from sleep so blest!
The flowers of this croft are Amranths all.
These no keen blasts may chill,no leven sere-
The glooms that o’er my time-bound pathway fall
Shadow them not: a radiance is here I may not see.
Their beauty I now scan with dimming sight,
Which only I shall contemplate aright
When earth-shades flee.
Here, twain are mine...this Lily of the glade—
Once on my breast its lucent Blossom lay;
Its pure breath fanned my cheek: its presence made
The darkest night as radiant as Love’s day: Fair at my side
A thing of beauty, in a world of wrong,
It bloomed, until a Gatherer came along at morning-tide.
This Rose, whose vermeil luster thrilled my heart
In life’s bright noon, that oft my lips did press,
For honey that its petals did impart,
Enchanting all my world with loveliness, so heavenly fair,
That I forgot all else save its delight,
Until a zephyr bore it from my sight
To set it here!
Yet are the Sower and the Gatherer same—
Re-birth is but the offspring of decay:
What I deem Life and Death are but the name
Of that fair garb wherewith doth God array creation all—
This seeming change is but the onward press
Of constant Being unto fruitfulness, from Spring to Fall:
And Love lives ever on. O truth profound,
That nought is lost...that every tender deed
Of mortal life falls upon fallow ground,
As from the sower’s hand the scattered seed, and there re-blooms.
Shedding new fragrance upon olden ways,
Where love hath no vain griefs, no yesterdays,
No tears, no tombs!
The above poem has been kindly presented to "The Epoch" for publication by the author and is its first appearance in print.
More Articles by This Author James Allen
James Allen was a little-known philosophical writer and poet. He is best recognized for his book, As a Man Thinketh. Allen wrote about complex subjects such as faith, destiny, love, patience, and religion but had the unique ability of explaining these subjects clearly and in a way that is easy to understand. He often wrote about cause and effect, sowing and reaping, as well as overcoming sadness, sorrow, and grief. For more information on the life of James Allen, click here.