The Morning Wind

The silver-burning, latest star
Precedes the widening rose of morn;
A hushed, expectant wind awakes
And walks abroad among the corn.

Gently suspiring as in dream,
Unseen but by the way it weaves,
A hushed, expectant wind awakes
To walk among the morning leaves…

Newness has perished from the moon;
The silver of the stars has thinned;
The sun has grown a common thing—
But not this little, tip-toe wind!

When Eden was removed from men
God, past computed measures kind—
Things we can never guess he took—
He left the morning wind behind,

To whisper still of Paradise
And lovely, dim-remembered days,—
The Little Wind that walked before
The Feet of Him down Eden's ways!
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