By Amos Russel Wells
Ghosts of dead rainbows dancing through the sky,
All heaven quivering to their noiseless feet,
Hand held in hand in eager circles fleet,
Sharp phalanxes that pierce, and darts that fly,
And ranks that shiver up to where on high
Spirits of light and ghosts of color meet
In a trembling phantom heart, whose pulses heat
With pallid beauty, palpitate, and die.
Sun of my soul, great Lord of life and light,
Thy noonday splendor sends me to my task
And turns my earth-besotted eyes from Thee;
But here, in this mysterious dream of night,
Behind a wavering, dim, and spectral mask,
Worshipful Father, Thy great Self I see.
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