FullReads

XVIII.

“What matter,” said I, “whether clank of chain
Or over-bliss wakes up to bitterness!”
Stung with its loss, I called the vision vain.
Yet feeling life grown larger, suffering less,
Sleep’s ashes from my eyelids I did brush.
The room was veiled, that morning should not press
Upon the slumber which had stayed the rush
Of ebbing life; I looked into the gloom:
Upon her brow the dawn’s first grayest flush,
And on her cheek pale hope’s reviving bloom,
Sat, patient watcher, darkling and alone,
She who had lifted me from many a tomb!
One then was left me of Love’s radiant cone!
Its light on her dear face, though faint and wan,
Was shining yet–a dawn upon it thrown
From the far coming of the Son of Man!

XIX.

In every forehead now I see a sky
Catching the dawn; I hear the wintriest breeze
About me blow the news the Lord is nigh.
Long is the night, dark are the polar seas,
Yet slanting suns ascend the northern hill.
Round Spring’s own steps the oozy waters freeze
But hold them not. Dreamers are sleeping still,
But labourers, light-stung, from their slumber start:
Faith sees the ripening ears with harvest fill
When but green blades the clinging earth-clods part.

XX.

Lord, I have spoken a poor parable,
In which I would have said thy name alone
Is the one secret lying in Truth’s well,
Thy voice the hidden charm in every tone,
Thy face the heart of every flower on earth,
Its vision the one hope; for every moan
Thy love the cure! O sharer of the birth
Of little children seated on thy knee!
O human God! I laugh with sacred mirth
To think how all the laden shall go free;
For, though the vision tarry, in healing ruth
One morn the eyes that shone in Galilee
Will dawn upon them, full of grace and truth,
And thy own love–the vivifying core
Of every love in heart of age or youth,
Of every hope that sank ‘neath burden sore!