By Frances Wierman

The Soul talking to the little soul says:

My soul, through what great arcs

Of cosmic drifting

And lovely ventures on transcendent sea;

With what beloved other souls a-journeying,

Do you spend all these hours away from Me?

Come home, my soul,

From your enchanted straying

Along fair highways in the land of dreams,

The stars grow weary and the Moon is dying,

The Earth awaits the Sun's first opal beams.

My soul, do you not hear the linnet calling,

And mark the feet of Night on shaken dew;

Come! Bring Me tales

Of memory-haunted wanderingó

And the little soul says:

I wake not till I feel the light of You.

I hear Your step among the buds of morning,

I meet Your eyes, cool, dark with mystery;

You touch me gently and I rise, awakeningó

And the Soul says:

My vagrant Soul, you have come home to Me!

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