Transfiguration

THE night wind whispers softly. Through the pines
Tumultuous murmur rises, swells, and dies.
The tender moonlight on the woodland lies
And the wide forest in the moon-mist shines
With glistening silver. The familiar lines
Of hill and valley melt and fade—to rise
All glorified and strange. Before my eyes
A magic power all grosser things refines.
Breathless I gaze, remote as in a trance.
I am no longer mortal when I see,
Now in the moment of supreme delight,
The tortuous labyrinth of old circumstance
Vanish to nothingness and leave me free
Under the boundless splendor of the night.
Alice Choate Perkins.