Alice Hunt Bartlett

Usque ad Aras

(To the Very Altars)

Another summer, with her chain of days,
Has slipped away to Memory’s recess;
Aside are laid the flowers of her dress,
With dear delights along her leafy ways;
Across the meadows blows a smoky haze
And as the incense rises . . . I confess . . .
Fulfilment, thou, of April’s tenderness,
Remembered as this rose-tipped evening grays.

Soon autumn’s stars in majesty will wheel,
Their storied journeys o’er the sky’s grave face
And with great drifting constellations reel,
Through paths of silver in night’s shadowed space.
Oh, gift of gifts, the throb of life to feel,
Your hand in mine in this now hallowed place!