The Pines - A poem by Miriam Smythe

The Pines.

This is the entrance to an ancient temple;
Here dwells a presence mystical and holy,
Invisible within the silent aisle,
Between the velvet columns of the pines;
Where, underneath the interwoven roof
And through the cool green tracery, the sun
Slips down in golden threads to the soft floor;
And all the while a perfume resinous
Freshens the air as from a living shrine.

No sounds disturb; even the clanging car,
Sliding along the curving track below,
Seems far away; the builders' hammers ring
As from a distant land; the golfer's cry
Floats from the valley unreal and remote
As phantom clamor from historic Troy.
The college halls, shot by the evening sun,
Are ancient, dream-like piles of long ago.
And God, in all this beauty immanent,
Quickens the heart with consciousness of Him.

^__Miriam Smythe, Eureka

Contemporary Kansas Poetry
Helen Rhoda Hoopes
page 109
(Kansas City: Joseph D. Havens Company. 1927)