The dark is magical
F. Hart
The dark is magical, the air
Living with silver moths.
Planet and star, like cherubim
On heaven's amber stair,
With golden cloths
About their shoulders thrown,
Whisper in sweet and secret monotone.
The west wind beats upon my face
With wings invisible, and feet
As white and light and musical
As wind... But lo,
Where yonder in a cloud of snow
Comes Christ, the Mystical!
His feet are whiter than the wind,
His raiment than the stars,
His voice than soiig of wind and stars
In diapason joined
More lyrical.