BURIED at moment of thy birth Beneath the earth; Hid thy life long afar From glimpse of nearest star; Creeping in darkness while rich seasons roll, Year following year, above thy stunted soul; Knowing but what the dead know in the tomb Of silence and of gloom, Dead, thou too, in thy present and thy past, What call doth reach thy deadened ear at last? What instinct bids thee yearn towards the light— Thou, who hast known but night? What dream dawns in thee, beautiful and bold, Of sylvan flight in noons of shimmering gold, Where trembling trees their fluted leaves unfold? How should such radiant dream be thine? Or how canst thou divine The counting of the years? For when their meted tale is told, Lo, summoned straightway from the mould By voice none other hears— Lo, born anew, The dream thou could'st not dream, is true! Thy sluggish spirit wakes, spreads wings away, And knows the Day. So, when God's time is done, may mystic call On my dull senses fall. So may I, groping upward through life's night, Go forth, new-winged, to an undreamed-of light. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LETTER TO MAXINE SULLIVAN by HAYDEN CARRUTH A PARADOX by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOMESDAY BOOK: HENRY BAKER, AT NEW YORK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE WALKING MAN OF RODIN by CARL SANDBURG THE BALINESE WITCH DOCTOR by KAREN SWENSON |