 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
BELIEF.
Oh how, though nipped and cut down o'er again,By frosts of Doubt, e'en to the very root,
My Faith puts ever, ivy-like, new shoot
And tendril forth, and labours to retain
On that sustaining pillar of the fane,
Which underprops the corner-stone unto it,
Its hold tenacious; lovingly to suit
Each flexure, till it on the top obtain
Sure coigne of vantage. But oh! what, alas!
What if the Temple, itself shattered, fall,
And like Earth's old memorial ruins pass
Into Time's wastes, tower, altar, pillar, wall!
Earthquake and whirlwind shake the grand old mass;
What will “The still, small voice” say after all?
| Stones from The Quarry | |