 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
86
The Lifting of the Mist
A mist is on the mountain-top, and hidesThe flushing heather with a weeping trail;
From crag to crag it hangs a cloudy veil,
Which hour by hour immovable abides.
But lo! the curtain suddenly divides
To unseen fingers of a gentle gale;
And purple heather once again we hail,
Decking with beauty the grey mountain-sides.
A mist is on things Heavenly, and the mind
Labours to see what still eludes its eye,
And fondly feels for what it cannot find:
Oh, for a gale celestial is our cry
To rend the clouds which baffle us and blind,
And flash upon us purple Calvary!
| Lyra Pastoralis | |