Poems (Hinxman)/A Question for the Night
A QUESTION FOR THE NIGHT.
If on some quiet night I lay
Upon my bed, as now I lie,
And watched the full moon hold her way
Across the silence of the sky,
With pace so gradual that she seemed
To rule unstirring in her height,
While underneath the river gleamed,
And all the landscape slept in light;—
If, on a sudden, I should see
A wanness strike along her face,
Should see her, like a storm-vexed tree.
Bow, rock, and stagger in her place; .
Then to a deep blood-crimson flush,
And, looming larger as she came,
Down from the cleaving zenith rush,
A darkening mass, streaked through with flame,
While roaring—not of wind—drew nigh;—
Then should I to my pillow turn,
And in a prostrate terror lie?
Or should I, rising up, discern
The instinct of a ransomed soul,
A kindling love that mastered fear,
And watch, behind Heaven's curling scroll,
To see my Saviour's face appear?
Upon my bed, as now I lie,
And watched the full moon hold her way
Across the silence of the sky,
With pace so gradual that she seemed
To rule unstirring in her height,
While underneath the river gleamed,
And all the landscape slept in light;—
If, on a sudden, I should see
A wanness strike along her face,
Should see her, like a storm-vexed tree.
Bow, rock, and stagger in her place; .
Then to a deep blood-crimson flush,
And, looming larger as she came,
Down from the cleaving zenith rush,
A darkening mass, streaked through with flame,
While roaring—not of wind—drew nigh;—
Then should I to my pillow turn,
And in a prostrate terror lie?
Or should I, rising up, discern
The instinct of a ransomed soul,
A kindling love that mastered fear,
And watch, behind Heaven's curling scroll,
To see my Saviour's face appear?
April 13. 1854,
THE END.
London:
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