Page:Poems Greenwell.djvu/224

Within the soul, like infants from their sleep
That stretch their arms into the dark and weep,
Thy voice can still. The stricken heart bereft
Of all its brood of singing hopes, and left
'Mid leafless boughs a cold forsaken nest
With snow-flakes in it, folded in thy breast
Doth lose its deadly chill; and grief that creeps
Unto thy side for shelter, finding there
The wound's deep cleft, forgets its moan and weeps
Calm quiet tears, and on thy forehead Care
Hath looked until its thorns, no longer bare,
Put forth pale roses. Pain on thee doth press
Its quivering cheek, and all the weariness,
The want that keep their silence, till from Thee
They hear the gracious summons, none beside
Hath spoken to the world-worn, "Come to me,"
Tell forth their heavy secrets.

      Thou dost hide
These in thy bosom, and not these alone,
But all our heart's fond treasure that had grown
 A burden else: oh. Saviour, tears were weighed
To Thee in plenteous measure! none hath shown
 That Thou didst smile! yet hast Thou surely made
All joy of ours Thine own;

      Thou madest us for Thine;
We seek amiss, we wander to and fro;
 Yet are we ever on the track Divine;
The soul confesseth Thee, but sense is slow