From: Dreams After Death:
The Awakening.
A moment of years-the spell of a magic moment raise
The mask of mourning from the soul;
While yet beneath the frame-destroying furnace blazes,
The god within has sought his golden goal.
A soft caressing, born of thousand-scented breezes,
A mingling music murmuring bliss,
A blending and a sigh which every pain appeases,
And thus the soul inhales the awak'ning kiss.
A calmness reigns-in all the sounds a silence lingers,
A silence which alone is joy.
And as the fragrance streameth forth from unseen singers,
The thirsty soul awakes from earth's alloy.
For strains of mighty choirs merge from vapour voices,
With words that never language knew,
But every accent lives and every sound rejoices,
Bespreading over all its hallowed hue.
Awake- the soul is lifted from her couch of roses,
Of myriad buds to earth unknown,
Of colours more alive than ever earth discloses,
Far richer, purer, paler, more full-blown.
No sweetness can expound-terrestrial joy is sadness,
All sleeping only wakes to strife;
But here each thought and sense unites in perfect gladness,
And man perceives that life was never Life.
Now was the gentlest moment time had ever moulded,
Now as the soul unveiled her eyes,
To find herself in countless virgin arms enfolded,
Back from her sojourn in the vale of sighs.
Not born to stranger's land-no plane that asks a parting
From former earth-engendered loves;
Here every tone accords, the spirit knows no thwarting,
And love returns enriched to him who loves.
Here every thought is real and every feeling golden,
No dream-for every dream is truth,
And vistas of past glories here are not withholden,
But only anguish knows no longer truth.
Cyril Scott
