Weather of the Soul

There is a world of being

We range from pole to pole,

Through seasons of the spirit

And weather of the soul.

It has its new-born Aprils,

With gladness in the air,

Its golden Junes of rapture,

Its winters of despair.

And in its tranquil autumns

We halt to re-enforce

Our tattered scarlet pennons

With valor and resource.

From undiscovered regions

Only the angels know,

Great winds of aspiration

Perpetually blow,

To free the sap of impulse

From torpor of distrust,

And into flowers of joyance

Quicken the sentient dust.

From nowhere of a sudden

Loom sudden clouds of fault,

With thunders of oppression

And lightnings of revolt.

With hush of apprehension

And quaking of the heart,

There breed the storms of anger,

And floods of sorrow start.

And there shall fall,— how gently!—

To make them fertile yet,

The rain of absolution

On acres of regret.

Till snows of mercy cover

The dream that shall come true,

When time makes all things wondrous,

And life makes all things new.