The Armies of the Eve


Not in the golden morning
Shall faded forms return,
For languidly and dimly then
The lights of memory burn:

Nor when the noon unfoldeth
Its sunny light and smile,
For these unto their bright repose
The wondering spirit wile:

But when the stars are wending
Their radiant way on high,
And gentle winds are whispering back
The music of the sky —

Oh, then those starry millions
Their streaming banners weave,
To marshal on their wildering way
The Armies of the Eve:

The dim and shadowy armies
Of our unquiet dreams,
Whose footsteps brush the feathery fern
And print the sleeping streams.

We meet them in the calmness
Of high and holier climes;
We greet them with the blessed names
Of old and happier times.

And, marching in the starlight
Above the sleeping dust,
They freshen all the fountain-springs
Of our undying trust.

Around our every pathway,
In beauteous ranks they roam,
To guide us to the dreamy rest
Of our eternal home.
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