Night Of Mid-June, In Heavy Vapours Dying, Like Priestly Hands Thy Holy Touch Is Lying Upon The World'S Wide Brow; God-Like And Grand All Nature Is Commanding The "Peace That Passes Human Understanding"; I, Also, Feel It Now. What Matters It To-Night, If One Life Treasure I Covet, Is Not Mine! Am I To Measure The Gifts Of Heaven'S Decree By My Desires? O! Life For Ever Longing For Some Far Gift, Where Many Gifts Are Thronging, God Wills, It May Not Be. Am I To Learn That Longing, Lifted Higher, Perhaps Will Catch The Gleam Of Sacred Fire That Shows My Cross Is Gold? That Underneath This Cross - However Lowly, A Jewel Rests, White, Beautiful And Holy, Whose Worth Can Not Be Told. Like To A Scene I Watched One Day In Wonder: - A City, Great And Powerful, Lay Under A Sky Of Grey And Gold; The Sun Outbreaking In His Farewell Hour, Was Scattering Afar A Yellow Shower Of Light, That Aureoled With Brief Hot Touch, So Marvellous And Shining, A Hundred Steeples On The Sky Out-Lining, Like Network Threads Of Fire; Above Them All, With Halo Far Outspreading, I Saw A Golden Cross In Glory Heading A Consecrated Spire: I Only Saw Its Gleaming Form Uplifting, Against The Clouds Of Grey To Seaward Drifting, And Yet I Surely Know Beneath The Seen, A Great Unseen Is Resting, For While The Cross That Pinnacle Is Cresting, An Altar Lies Below. Night Of Mid-June, So Slumberous And Tender, Night Of Mid-June, Transcendent In Thy Splendour Thy Silent Wings Enfold And Hush My Longing, As At Thy Desire All Colour Fades From Round That Far-Off Spire, Except Its Cross Of Gold.