Original Voices from the Past

“Morning,” “Noon,” and “Evening” by Jessie Belle Mills

Morning
Shoulder to shoulder, ’gainst our northern sky,
  They stand majestic, of their race the last.
Like unrelenting warriors of the past,
  They guard the valleys that beneath them lie.
’Tis morning; and the silent-footed Night
  Has stolen as she passed, each scar and seam;
Beguiled of years, their strife appears a dream,
  And life one sweet awakening to the light.
The soft air melts to curves each rugged line
  Cut by the centuries; afar they gaze
On lands enchanted; out of mist and haze
  The dawn is weaving fairy raiment fine.
Arrayed like wedding-guests they now appear,
  And hail the joyous bridal of the year.


Noon
Gone are the sweet delusions of the morn;
  The tender haze that wove so fair a veil
And lent itself their gauntness to adorn,
  Is banished. They must needs don sterner mail.
Bare as the heart that sorrow’s hand has stripped
  Of all its fondest hopes; drear as the tree
Whose tender leaves some biting frost has nipped,
  Appear those desert slopes to you who see
With eye alone. For though above their pain
  The sun exults, and scorches rift and seam,———
The giddy heights swim in the throbbing air,
  And all that morning promised sweet or fair
Is fled like the awakening of a dream,———
  Prometheus-like, unconquered they remain.


Evening
At eventide, He saith, it shall be light.
  Then hope and resolution,—dawn and noon,—
Melt into evening,— peace—, nor dark nor bright,
  But tender; life hath never known a boon
Beyond pain's reach, save this, serene and high.
  The warrior-hearts are calm; on sorrow's breast
The rose and purple blooms of sunset lie;
  Bloom after blight, and after conflict, rest.
O royal mountains, lofty aye, and deep,
  The blue eternities above you soar;
The day is over, with its throb and fret;
  The night is coming, on your brows to set
Her coronal of stars; peace evermore;
  For so He giveth His beloved sleep.


by Jessie Belle Mills