XXVII

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.