Poem November 10, 1934 Issue

The Awakening

BEATRICE CLAYTON

THIS time-belief, this mundane phantasy,
Now thrills with pleasure, now distracts with grief;
But what of that? The waking draws apace.
'Tis but a dream, a dream!

Sometime, or soon or late, the one who dreams,
Glimpsing mirages, sharing radiant hopes,
Threading dark mazes in drear loneliness,
Or caught in seething maelstroms—such a one
Appeals, cries out for succor: then it is
That one who loves sufficiently to hear
Bids him awake. Oh, sweet relief of waking
From nightmare-ridden slumbers! He beholds
With wondering eyes the pure, pale light of Truth
That shineth more and more to perfect day:
Perceives, though dimly, but with boundless joy,
Undreamed-of beauty now, here, everywhere,
Undreamed-of harmony and calm and strength,
Undreamed-of good at hand forevermore!
How truly was it said by one who dreamed:
When I awake I shall be satisfied—
When I awake Thy likeness to discern!