The Last of the Spirits

Oh! call it not a wild and grizzly scene Where Nature’s tempests wrestle with the sky; For glorious visions rise where clouds have been, And in the sunbeam, all is bright on high.

Mark how the flowers in their beauty bloom, With radiant hues upon their fragile form; And when the stormy night is heard to groom, How soft their petals break the tempest’s warm.

All creatures bound by golden folds of light, They breathe a joy that none but Nature knows; The harmony of earth, in hopeful bright, A whisper with a sweetness that only grows.

Thus in the dark, a spirit flight takes breath, For every silent moment is a breath from death.

—Felicia Hemans

• Felicia Hemans