 | Poems |  |
187
XLIX
[Silence, loneliness, darkness—]
Silence, loneliness, darkness—
These, and of these my fill,
While God in the rush of the Maytide
Without is working His will.
These, and of these my fill,
While God in the rush of the Maytide
Without is working His will.
Without are the wind and the wall-flowers,
The leaves and the nests and the rain,
And in all of them God is making
His beautiful purpose plain.
The leaves and the nests and the rain,
And in all of them God is making
His beautiful purpose plain.
But I wait in a horror of strangeness—
A tool on His workshop floor,
Worn to the butt, and banished
His hand for evermore.
A tool on His workshop floor,
Worn to the butt, and banished
His hand for evermore.
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