A Storm.
101
In the fields a harvest dead,
In the woods life’s promise fled,
And the lark is blown seaward as he sings.
Far better you were sleeping, O my soul.
Than that your coming forth a moment stole
From another’s heart its rest.
Die you silent in my breast
And seek in death that answer life denied:
Lest a dying voice should curse instead of pray,
Lest a heart should shadow, blighted of its May,
Lest a soul glad of its light
Should be plunged in gloom of night.
Be in the World’s seeing satisfied.
