Twilight Ritual

I long for the wine of assurance
Feeling the doubtings of men;
My ship returns to its home port
To a scene of my childhood again:

Aspens sing for the river's
Lyrics that never grow old.
Stars pin back the curtains of twilight
On the sky with a broach of pale gold.

The breezes are quietly strumming
Tree harps, while a killdeer's far cry
Tunes the heart to the peace of contentment,
To the cricket's lullaby.

Father calls all the family together
To kneel round the hearthstone in prayer.
The harps of the aspens cease strumming
As he talks to God listening there.

Young Alchemists

I was but one of ten young alchemists
Who blended toil with laughter into play;
Who always held their April beauty-trysts
With violets and drank from the Milky-Way;
Who knew how straight and tall a pine could grow
Upon a sloping hill though reaching high;
Who often rose at dawn to stand tiptoe
Upon a youthful dream to touch the sky;
Who knelt around the circled chairs at night
And talked with God; in morning knelt again,
Then labored joyously within His light
And found Him in the fields of grain. These ten
Now silver-haired and far from homestead sod,
Still hold a rendezvous with joy and God.