The Poetry Corner

The Dead Day

By Madison Julius Cawein

The west builds high a sepulcher Of cloudy granite and of gold, Where twilight's priestly hours inter The Day like some great king of old. A censer, rimmed with silver fire, The new moon swings above his tomb; While, organ-stops of God's own choir, Star after star throbs in the gloom. And Night draws near, the sadly sweet - A nun whose face is calm and fair - And kneeling at the dead Day's feet Her soul goes up in mists like prayer. In prayer, we feel through dewy gleam And flowery fragrance, and - above All earth - the ecstasy and dream That haunt the mystic heart of love.