II. DE PROFUNDIS

But in the depth thou hast another home,

For hearts less daring, or more frail.

Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale;

And pilgrim-souls that roam

With weary feet o'er hill and dale,

Bearing the burden and the heat

Of toilful days,

Turn from the dusty ways

To find thee in thy green and still retreat.

Here is no vision wide outspread

Before the lonely and exalted seat

Of all-embracing knowledge. Here, instead,

A little garden, and a sheltered nook,

With outlooks brief and sweet

Across the meadows, and along the brook,—

A little stream that little knows

Of the great sea towards which it gladly flows,—

A little field that bears a little wheat

To make a portion of earth's daily bread.

The vast cloud-armies overhead

Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows

Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell

Whence the storm comes nor where it goes.

Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well;

Thy daily task is done,

And though a lowly one,

Thou gavest it of thy best,

And art content to rest

In patience till its slow reward is won.

Not far thou lookest, but thy sight is clear;

Not much thou knowest, but thy faith is dear;

For life is love, and love is always near.

Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart,

Sure of itself and sure of all the rest,

Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part

In open converse, bringing forth its best:

Here is Sweet music, melting every chain

Of lassitude and pain:

And here, at last, is sleep, the gift of gifts,

The tender nurse, who lifts

The soul grown weary of the waking world,

And lays it, with its thoughts all furled,

Its fears forgotten, and its passions still,

On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will.