At the hush of his word

In a pause of his breath

When the waters have heard

His will that he saith,

They stand as a flock penned close in its fold for division of death.

As a flock by division

Of death to be thinned,

As the shades in a vision

Of spirits that sinned;

So glimmer their shrouds and their sheetings as clouds on the stream of the wind.

But the sun stands fast,

And the sea burns bright,

And the flight of them past

Is no more than the flight

Of the snow-soft swarm of serene wings poised and afloat in the light.

Like flowers upon flowers

In a festival way

When hours after hours

Shed grace on the day,

White blossomlike butterflies hover and gleam through the snows of the spray.

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