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Title: The Vision
Author: Frank Oliver Call [
More Titles by Call]
A vision came unto a saint of old
Of a fair city by a crystal stream,
Its gates of pearl, its streets of shining gold,--
Barbaric splendours of a mystic's dream.
There upon floating wings the white-robed throng
No man can number chant in endless song;
Across the tideless sea no shadow falls
To dim the glory of the sapphire walls,
Or mar the splendour of the throne-crowned height.
Ah love, the mystic's vision wakes to-night,
With all its glittering show and kingly pride,
No longing in a heart unsatisfied.
But oh, to walk with thee the river shore
As in the days gone by, the gold strewn o'er
The strand of primrose bloom, the water's flow,
Mingled with thy sweet voice in music low,
The angel song; to touch my lips to thine,
To hear the whispering of thy heart to mine,
And burning with a fire that never dies,
To see once more the love-light in thine eyes.
Ah, dim those far celestial splendours burn,
Gray grow the sapphire walls and gold-strewn ways
Before the vision of thy love's return
With all the unuttered joys of bygone days.
[The end]
Frank Oliver Call's poem: Vision
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