FOR years eighteen she, patient soul, Her eyes had graveward sent; Her earthly life was lapt in dole, She was so bowed and bent. What words! To her? Who can be near? What tenderness of hands! Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere? New hope, or breaking bands? The pent life rushes swift along Channels it used to know; Up, up, amid the wondering throng, She rises firm and slow— To bend again in grateful awe— For will is power at length— In homage to the living Law Who gives her back her strength. Uplifter of the down-bent head! Unbinder of the bound! Who seëst all the burdened Who only see the ground! Although they see thee not, nor cry, Thou watchest for the hour To lift the forward-beaming eye, To wake the slumbering power! Thy hand will wipe the stains of time From off the withered face; Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime Of youthful manhood's grace! Like summer days from winter's tomb, Shall rise thy women fair; Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom, Lo, is not anywhere! All ills of life shall melt away As melts a cureless woe, When, by the dawning of the day Surprised, the dream must go. I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too, Whate'er the needful cure; The great best only thou wilt do, And hoping I endure. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE FAIR CLARINDA, WHO MADE LOVE TO ME by APHRA BEHN AT DOVER CLIFFS, JULY 20, 1787 by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES A SONG TO DAVID by CHRISTOPHER SMART EVENING by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |