Poems of Madison Cawein Vol. 3 — The Dead Day

The west builds high a sepulchre Of cloudy granite and of gold, Where twilight’s priestly hours inter The day like some great king of old.

A censer, rimmed with silver fire, The new moon swings above his tomb;

While, organ-stops of God’s own choir, Star after star throbs in the gloom.

And night draws near, the sadly sweet-- A nun whose face is calm and fair-- And kneeling at the dead day’s feet Her soul goes up in silent prayer.

In prayer, we feel through dewy gleam And flowery fragrance, and--above All Earth--the ecstasy and dream That haunt the mystic heart of love.

ALLUREMENT