 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
261
LOOKING UP.
The winds are forever blowing, blowing,
The streams are forever flowing, flowing,
And all things forever going, going,
Nothing on earth is at rest,—
Ever departing, never abiding,
Sliding away, and onward gliding,
Alike the worst, the best.
The streams are forever flowing, flowing,
And all things forever going, going,
Nothing on earth is at rest,—
Ever departing, never abiding,
Sliding away, and onward gliding,
Alike the worst, the best.
The sky is a glacier paved with snow,
And heaped with many a crowded floe,
And here and there a rift breaks through,
Showing behind an abyss of blue,—
A tender silence beyond, afar,
Out of the tumult and rush, and far
Of the winds that drive and rage below
And beat on the mountain's crest,—
And for all we hope, and more than we know,
There, perchance, is rest.
And heaped with many a crowded floe,
And here and there a rift breaks through,
Showing behind an abyss of blue,—
A tender silence beyond, afar,
Out of the tumult and rush, and far
Of the winds that drive and rage below
And beat on the mountain's crest,—
And for all we hope, and more than we know,
There, perchance, is rest.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |