Poems By Frederick William Faber: Third edition |
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XXVIII. | XVIII. THE STORM IS PAST. |
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Poems | ||
XVIII. THE STORM IS PAST.
I
The storm is past: the green hill-sideIs streaked with evening gleams,
Let out through rents in yon dark cloud,
Day's last and loveliest beams.
163
II
Still clings the tempest's fleecy skirtRound Fairfield's hollow crest,
Where glorious mists in many a fold
Of wavy silver rest.
III
Deep imaged in the lake sereneThe shadowy mountains lie:
Deeper than heaven itself the blue
Of that unreal sky.
IV
Oh! soft falls evening on the heartWith gnawing cares deprest,
Feeding on all her quiet things,—
A Sacrament of rest!
V
Sin-blighted though we are—yet stillUpon our weary souls,
Through hills and woods, through lakes and streams,
A tide of glory rolls:
VI
A brimming tide from heaven that flowsOf freshness and of power,
And holy strength to nerve the heart
For duty's sterner hour.
Poems | ||