IN THE CARAVAN.
75
Think of dusky winds that whisper up its height Like winged spirits fanning against their prison-bars;
And, when thus we sigh and languish, a cry resounds, and soon, Across the sea of sand some foreland rears its head,Where tamarisk thickets drop their dew in the mid-noon,— Then life rebubbles in our veins as it might stir the dead!
Oh, surely so, when hard the way before and long behind, One everlasting refuge always rises close at hand,Where the living fountains flow, and in whose rest we find The Shadow of a Great Rock in a weary land!
