She will come as a vision in the meadow:
As the summer's evening sun
Trickles down the westward sky.
She will come gently in her loveliness,
Beautiful and slow.
She will come as a bright day's warmth
Amidst the winter's chill;
As the February hour that steals
Another minute's light from the dark.
As a peace after the tumult,
As birdsong in the spring's morn,
As a brook in the fastness of the forest,
As the whispered promise of dawn,
She will come,
And past pains will rest at last
Sleeping deeply with present joys.
She will come at her own time,
Upon her own day, at our own rhythm,
When the steps of the dance are such
As to unite us out of this heady swirl.
She will come as a lone star
Peering through the dark clouds of the night,
And by that slender, shimmering light,She’ll lead me home. Home. Home, again.