James Church Alvord

WALKING through woodlands and oncoming night

I saw His hair stream in the sky-line’s red,

I heard His footsteps on the path which led

Out from the naked trees; while golden light

Shook from His seamless robe, that, rimpling, slight

As woof of dream-stuff, flamed across the bed

Of some low-gurgling brook. He was not dead—

His risen presence was a world’s delight.

It was the magic of a night too fleet

That filled the valley with a foam of mist;

The scorch of cloud-banks that the sun still kissed,

And crunch of crinkled leaves beneath my feet.

I’d offer every breath I’ve yet to breathe,

Just to believe, O Master—to believe!