 | Sermons and songs of the Christian life |  |
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THE SILENT PRAYER.
Storms were lowering in the welkin, and the gray clouds thicker grew,
And the pine-trees stood as mourners which the winds were sobbing through;
And the pine-trees stood as mourners which the winds were sobbing through;
And that night we gathered closer when we heard the east wind blow,
“Oh, how cold it must be yonder, sleeping out beneath the snow!”
“Oh, how cold it must be yonder, sleeping out beneath the snow!”
Friends came in, and close around us stood between us and the storm,
And we wept and leaned against them, with their great hearts beating warm.
And we wept and leaned against them, with their great hearts beating warm.
Words, how vain! but words they spake not, while their thoughts rose warm and clear
On their silent prayer-wings upward to the heavenly Father near.
On their silent prayer-wings upward to the heavenly Father near.
Oh, what tones there are in silence, solemn as the toll of bells!
Tolling through the heart forever, tolling through its empty cells;
Tolling through the heart forever, tolling through its empty cells;
Silence over all the playground, hushing childhood's merry glee;
Silence in the curtained chamber, where the music warbled free;
Silence in the curtained chamber, where the music warbled free;
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Silence on the graves out yonder, silence round the empty chair;
But the silence speaketh never like the silence of the prayer.
But the silence speaketh never like the silence of the prayer.
When some truce from care and sorrow in the arms of sleep we found,
Dreaming dreams of little coffins, and a pale face underground,
Dreaming dreams of little coffins, and a pale face underground,
Came a glory down the welkin, cleaving darkness like a wedge;
As the sculptor cleaves the marble, cutting clean along the edge,
As the sculptor cleaves the marble, cutting clean along the edge,
So it cut the solid darkness till it touched the ground below,
Where our little May lay sleeping underneath the winter snow;
Where our little May lay sleeping underneath the winter snow;
And the glory tipped the pine-trees, and I heard the southern breeze
Touch them soft as any fingers ever touched the organ keys;
Touch them soft as any fingers ever touched the organ keys;
And a low and rhythmic murmur through the heart this music made:
“There is spring without the winter, where the May-flowers never fade.”
“There is spring without the winter, where the May-flowers never fade.”
Thrice and four times came the music like a distant travelled song,
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer, growing clear and growing strong;
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer, growing clear and growing strong;
First in sweetly plaintive whispers, like a breeze o'er asphodels,
Breaking thence in broad effulgence, like the music blown from shells.
Breaking thence in broad effulgence, like the music blown from shells.
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Then it waked me. Was it only some chance vision of the night?
Or the angel softly muffled lest his garments shine too bright?
Or the angel softly muffled lest his garments shine too bright?
Do not all the highest tokens sent in answer to our prayers,
Come along some curtained passage down the bright and heavenly stairs?
Come along some curtained passage down the bright and heavenly stairs?
I know nothing. Years have vanished since that night of wintry storm,
When the silent prayer went upward from those great hearts beating warm;
When the silent prayer went upward from those great hearts beating warm;
But the answer soundeth ever o'er the graves beneath the snow,—
THERE IS SPRING WITHOUT THE WINTER, WHERE THE MAY-FLOWERS ALWAYS BLOW.
THERE IS SPRING WITHOUT THE WINTER, WHERE THE MAY-FLOWERS ALWAYS BLOW.
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