The Visionary

Not his the right to waste life's golden hours 
In idle dreaming on his couch of flowers, 
Whose faint, sweet odors all his senses lull, 
Till they seem drunken with the beautiful; 
And in voluptuous languor day on day, 
Unsanctified by duty, melts away.

What time he listens to the song of June
Rippling the greenery with its breezy tune,
Or, thridding the dim woods, delighted sees
The golden sunshine shimmering through the trees,
Making, as swing the lithe boughs to and fro,
Weird, shifting pictures on the ground below,
And half believes he hears the musical beat
On the soft grass of myriad tiny feet,
As through the dance the fairy people whirl, —
Each tiny waltzer with his dizzy girl —
While a strange rapture permeates and thrills
His every sense, and all his spirit fills, —
From such communion let him carry home
Strength for the battles that are yet to come,
And not forget that life's full meanings, sweep
A wider circle and profounder deep;
That hopes may ripen into nobler acts,
And glorious dreams become more glorious facts;
That the world's beauty is divinely used
When with our central being interfused,
And breathed abroad in love and faith and zeal,
Whose triple forces blend for human weal;
That, as the landscape, when the pall of Night
Furls from the hills, so, broader and more bright
Our life must grow, when kindled by the sun
That beams in blessings upon duty done.