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 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
My Window.
Under my window my couch is set,
I have gazed through it long, I am gazing yet;
While on my table lie,
Without one look, each treasured book,
And the verses planned,
Which will have to be copied by and by,
For the pencil fell from forgetful hand.
I have gazed through it long, I am gazing yet;
While on my table lie,
Without one look, each treasured book,
And the verses planned,
Which will have to be copied by and by,
For the pencil fell from forgetful hand.
Though all that from my couch I see
Is the topmost bough of a leafless tree,
Clear pencilled where the blue
Dies into white as it meets the light
From the bright south-east,
I have revelled in my morning view,
My eyes have had a very feast.
Is the topmost bough of a leafless tree,
Clear pencilled where the blue
Dies into white as it meets the light
From the bright south-east,
I have revelled in my morning view,
My eyes have had a very feast.
209
Last night I sat without a lamp,
When the clouds broke up their sullen camp.
Through the tiny pointed arch,
With its one cross-bar, I watched a star,
As on unknown quest,
Just touch the zenith of its march,
And curve its path to the solemn west.
When the clouds broke up their sullen camp.
Through the tiny pointed arch,
With its one cross-bar, I watched a star,
As on unknown quest,
Just touch the zenith of its march,
And curve its path to the solemn west.
Now all the clouds have fled away,
The Dark has died, and the living Day
Has dropped the stars on her shroud;
And as I lie, the shining sky
Is so grandly bright,
With so much radiance endowed,
That it trembles with its wealth of light.
The Dark has died, and the living Day
Has dropped the stars on her shroud;
And as I lie, the shining sky
Is so grandly bright,
With so much radiance endowed,
That it trembles with its wealth of light.
A wealth that is enough for me,—
I need not mountain, wood, or sea,
In many-tinted sight;
This seven-rayed flow of pure white glow
Through the sapphire air,
This calming glory of the Light,
Is so unutterably fair
I need not mountain, wood, or sea,
In many-tinted sight;
This seven-rayed flow of pure white glow
Through the sapphire air,
This calming glory of the Light,
Is so unutterably fair
It is not idle to employ
Quick-passing moments on a joy,
Like these sweet morning rays.
So I do not think, but rest and drink
From the crystal river,
While a dewdrop of rejoicing praise
Floats up to Him, the kind Light-Giver!
Quick-passing moments on a joy,
Like these sweet morning rays.
So I do not think, but rest and drink
From the crystal river,
While a dewdrop of rejoicing praise
Floats up to Him, the kind Light-Giver!
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |