 | The white sail and other poems |  |
107
‘MY TIMES ARE IN THY HANDS.’
‘My times are in Thy hands!’
It rumbles from the sea;
It jingles ever, inland far,
From the reddening rowan-tree.
It rumbles from the sea;
It jingles ever, inland far,
From the reddening rowan-tree.
Let me not sit inert,
Let me not be afraid!
Teach me to dare and to resist
Like the first mortal made,
Let me not be afraid!
Teach me to dare and to resist
Like the first mortal made,
To whom of fate's dread strength
No sickening rumors ran;
Who with whatever grim event
Grappled, as man with man.
No sickening rumors ran;
Who with whatever grim event
Grappled, as man with man.
Seal to my utmost age
What now my youth hath known:
‘My times are in thy hands,’ O most!
When wholly in my own.
What now my youth hath known:
‘My times are in thy hands,’ O most!
When wholly in my own.
| The white sail and other poems | |