Sleep hath composed the anguish of my brain, And ere the dawn I will arise and pray. Strengthen me, Heaven, and attune my lay Unto my better angel's clear refrain. For I can hear him in the night again, The breathless night, snow-smothered, happy, grey, With premonition of the jocund day, Singing a quiet carol to my pain. Slowly, saith he, the April buds are growing In the chill core of twigs all leafless now; Gently, beneath the weight of last night's snowing, Patient of winter's hand, the branches bow. Each buried seed lacks light as much as thou. Wait for the spring, brave heart; there is no knowing. |