night.
153
VII.
In the still hours, a stiller strength was born
Deep in my heart.—It was no selfish dream,
Nor even hope, with far and tender beam,
To make me for the moment less forlorn:
Nor was it child of will, before the morn
To dream itself away. With life dismayed,
God help me, O God help me!—so I prayed;—
A simple prayer, but winning swift return;
A hand, that raised all gently from the dust,
And led me childlike on, beyond the strife
Of vulgar aims, past anguish and distrust,
And the pale warders of our daily life,
To where God binds above our harvest sun,
All fragmentary being in his one.
Deep in my heart.—It was no selfish dream,
Nor even hope, with far and tender beam,
To make me for the moment less forlorn:
Nor was it child of will, before the morn
To dream itself away. With life dismayed,
God help me, O God help me!—so I prayed;—
A simple prayer, but winning swift return;
A hand, that raised all gently from the dust,
And led me childlike on, beyond the strife
Of vulgar aims, past anguish and distrust,
And the pale warders of our daily life,
To where God binds above our harvest sun,
All fragmentary being in his one.
