Look for me in springtime
As raindrops fill the air
In the splendor of the rainbow
You’ll find my presence there.

You will find me in the fragrance
Of April’s sweet perfume
Drifting through the clover
On a sultry day in June.

An August day will find me
Upon the summer breeze
On the distant sound of the thunder
In the gently swaying trees.

In the golden fields of harvest
Is where I can be found.
As autumn time approaches
And leaves comes tumbling down.

In the wintertime when days are short
And chill is in the air
Just look into a moonlit night
You’ll find me lingering there.

When the setting sun has gone away
And shadows fill the night
When the cloak of darkness lifts its veil
I’ll be your morning light.

So when you feel discouraged
Get on your knees and pray
You’ll feel me there beside you
I’m just a breath away.

(Marilyn Ferguson © 2003)

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow