The Prisoner of Love :: :: University of Virginia Library

Is it nothing that the dust
Cannot kill the seeds of trust,
And the midnight at its darkest carries yet a burning lamp?
For each burden has a rest
And a beauty in its breast,
Which bears signatures of Justice and the Deity's own stamp;
And the armies of the wind
From the Arctic unto Ind,
Are the forces of Omnipotence at play that round us camp;
While the Destinies yet share
With our common things and care,
And the pauper with his pottage and the beggar on his tramp.

I am sure the very shroud
Is a marriage robe, and cloud
But a garment of the Glory which has everywhere a trace;
In the murmur of the bee
And the dewdrops which the tree
Hangs as jewels from the branches by its gossamers of grace,

186

I can read the riddle true
With the wonder of its clue,
While I bathe my soul in splendour and the roses blue of space.
For all nature is a mask
Of the Father at His task,
While we guess what is the fulness from the glimpses of His Face.