Poem by Constance Caroline Woodhill Naden

Twilight

THE radiant colours in the west are paling;
Fast fades the gold, and green, and crimson light,
And softly comes, each trivial object veiling,
The all-ennobling mystery of night.

This is the hour of thought and silent musing,
When poets' fancies tender buds unfold;
Like the sweet primrose of the twilight, choosing
To spend on evening noonday's gift of gold.

These blossoms hide within their deep recesses
Treasures the wandering wind can never seize;
Not all its inner wealth the flower confesses,
Nor gives its choicest perfume to the breeze.

What wizard's wand can charm the secret sweetness
From the fair prison, where it lies concealed?
What poet's lay can show in grand completeness
The inmost heart, by human speech revealed?

We twine the spell of rich harmonious numbers,
We conjure up the graceful words in vain:
Our lighter fancies waken from their slumbers;
Without a voice the noblest thoughts remain.

So dash the restless billows of the ocean,
But bring no tidings of the tranquil deep;
Above, are endless tumult and commotion;
Below, are silence and eternal sleep.

Beneath the realms that human skill discloses,
Where Life and Death have ceased their ancient fight,
The deep foundation of the earth reposes,
A temple sacred to primæval night.

In wild rejoicing, and in vengeful madness,
Men haste o'er vale and mountain, sea and shore,
But calmly, underneath their grief and gladness,
The earth's great secret lies for evermore.

Above, the sky with myriad stars is gleaming;
Fair in their light the sleeping land appears;
And yet that radiance, o'er the earth down-streaming,
Tells not the wonders of the distant spheres.

And far beyond the realms of starlight glory
Are mysteries too high for Fancy's wing,
Nameless alike in science and in story
In all that sage can tell or poet sing.

As height and depth alike transcends our Vision,
The human soul whence clearest lustre beams,
Has yet its Hades and its fields Elysian,
Revealed alone in symbols and in dreams.

For there are griefs, that none has ever spoken,
Joys, that no mortal tongue has power to tell;
The silence of the soul must be unbroken
Till to the speech of earth we bid farewell.

1. April, 1879
2. Moonlight and Gas
3. Poet and Botanist
4. May, 1879
5. The Ideal

Eliza Acton Twilight ("Twilight! still season of deep communings")

Print

1552 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version