In That Golden Air

Each morn I wake the leaves grow brighter still

Unwilling to release their fragile hold

And I unable or without the will

To redesign this fated life, remould

This being divine yet lower than the clod,

Half animal who burns with inner fire

For roads unseen and avenues untrod

To reach beyond the stars for something higher.

Where now the soft and silken folds of peace

That lined the treasured coffers of my soul,

Where now the spirit's song that would not cease

That meeting Her I might surrender all,

Her hands of Grace that touch this humbled head,

She in the dark-carved, high-backed rosewood chair

And I kneeling now by wonder led

To meditate with her in that golden air.