 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
HOPE.
'Tis not in Nature's drops or tearful shower,All iridescent, like strewed opals, smit
With sunlight through and through, that Hope doth sit
And smile on Mortals with her súpreme power;—
Not that her chosen emblem. Dark when lowr
The clouds of ill, by Faith divinelier lit,
While fast the tears fall (yet aglow with it)
Of poor Mortality, that is Hope's hour
And type supreme! Then let them fall and clear
The air, sweeten, make breathable; with rain
Of Grace this dull Earth quicken, till appear
(Its odours giving back to Heaven again)
Those flowers divine, without which Man's life here
Is but a howling waste of sin and pain!
| Stones from The Quarry | |