Midsummer Dawn

WHILE the weird, white midnight creepeth by,
Awake and quiet and sad to lie;
Then, when the midsummer moon is set,
To sleep a while, and forget.
To wake again at the hour of terror,
And writhe in the grasp of a deathless error,
And shrink on the brink of an ocean of loss,
Doomed, so it seemeth, to cross.
Invisible foes in vain defying,
To fight and fall, and, helpless lying,
To wonder why, if the hour be small,
It is light again on the wall;
For the moon is down. To look, and, lo,
All over the land what a solemn glow!
Like that of the strange, prophetic year,
A time not dark, not clear,
But full of peace and tremulous hope.
There is the stately, wooded slope;
There is the head of the mountain old
Outlined on palest gold.
A mystery, — hope in the hour of gloaming.
Surety a luminous change is coming!
Shadows and light and virginal dew,
And all things pure and new!
And what is yon dulcet, note, and shrill?
Can it be the new song of the whip-poor-will, —
Till the day dawn and the shadows flee,
Now will I wait for thee?
Yea, this is day. In the hyaline heaven,
Doth shine a sign of the dark forgiven,
’Mid the tender glow o’er the mount afar;
“ I will give him the morning star.”
Harriet W. Preston.