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By Olive Custance

Spirit of Twilight, through your folded wings

I catch a glimpse of your averted face,

And rapturous on a sudden, my soul sings

“Is not this common earth a holy place?”

Spirit of Twilight, you are like a song

That sleeps, and waits a singer,—like a hymn

That God finds lovely and keeps near Him long,

Till it is choired by aureoled cherubim.

Spirit of Twilight, in the golden gloom

Of dreamland dim I sought you, and I found

A woman sitting in a silent room

Full of white flowers that moved and made no sound.

These white flowers were the thoughts you bring to all,

And the room’s name is Mystery where you sit,

Woman whom we call Twilight, when night’s pall

You lift across our Earth to cover it.