Today is a perfect poem,

 As fair as a dream of June;

And the heart of the dying summer 

Seems ebbing away in tune, 

A tune that is tenderly dreamy,

Tender and soft and low, 

Telling of just such poems

In summers of long ago.

And down in the wide green valley,

Over the beautiful bay, 

Rests a veil of shimmering splendor,

Of gossamer soft and gray.

And the south wind breaking softly,

In whispers across the sea, 

Is telling the same old story,

Over and over to me;

Telling it over and over,

In language that's passing sweet, 

Of rivers of purer water,

Of rest for the weary feet;

Of green and shadowy pastures,

Of flowers that never die; 

Of a perfect, eternal summer,

A cloudless, unchanging sky;

Of a fair and shining city,

Which needs not the light of day,

Nor stars, nor the moon's pale glory; 

For Christ is the light alway.

Oh! This is that perfect poem, 

Oh! This is that dream most fair,

Where the vanished and golden splendor 

Of summers shall all "be there.”

Coming from God out of Heaven,

The beautiful city will seem 

Fairer than bride in adorning,

Fairer than aught we can dream.

Make me but worthy to enter;

Give me, my Father, a place; 

Lead me up into thy Summer,

Into the light of thy face.


M. R. H.