And All The Air Is Filled With

The Day Is Done; And Slowly From The Scene The Stooping Sun Upgathers His Spent Shafts, And Puts Them Back Into His Golden Quiver!

The Spirit-world Around This World Of Sense Floats Like An Atmosphere, And Everywhere Wafts Through These Earthly Mists And Vapours Dense A Vital Breath Of More Ethereal Air.

Dreams Or Illusions, Call Them What You Will, They Lift Us From The Commonplace Of Life To Better Things.

The Smoking Flax Before It Burst To Flame Was Quenched By Death, And Broken The Bruised Reed.

O Gift Of God! O Perfect Day: Whereon Shall No Man Work, But Play; Whereon It Is Enough For Me, Not To Be Doing, But To Be!