Poem by Charles Heavysege

The Infinite

The day was lingering in the pale north-west,
And night was hanging o'er my head—
Night, where a myriad stars were spread;
While down in the east, where the light was least,
Seemed the home of the quiet dead.
And, as I gazed on the field sublime,
To watch the bright, pulsating stars,
Adown the deep where the angels sleep
Came drawn the golden chime
Of those great spheres that sound the years
For the horologe of time.
Millenniums numberless they told,
Millenniums a millionfold
From the ancient hour of prime.

1. Childhood Alone Is Glad
2. Secrets Of The Heart
3. The Coming of Morn
4. Winter Night
5. The Dead

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