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[132]

But still his heart was full of awe
And reverence for all sacred things;
And, brooding over form and law,
He saw the Spirit's wings I

Life's mystery wrapt him like a cloud;
He heard far voices mock his own,
The sweep of wings unseen, the loud,
Long roll of waves unknown.

Literature has few finer meditative poems than that written in 1871, and bearing the name “My birthday.” Not a verse of this can well be spared for those who would be in intimate contact with the poet's soul.

My birthday

Beneath the moonlight and the snow
Lies dead my latest year;
The winter winds are wailing low,
It dirges in my ear.

I grieve not with the moaning wind
As if a loss befell;
Before me, even as behind,
God is, and all is well!

His light shines on me from above,
His low voice speaks within,--
The patience of immortal love
Outwearying mortal sin.

Not mindless of the growing years
Of care and loss and pain,
My eyes are wet with thankful tears
For blessings which remain.

If dim the gold of life has grown,
I will not count it dross,
Nor turn from treasures still my own
To sigh for lack and loss.


The Macmillan Company. London. 1902.

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1871 AD (1)
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