IV.
The night is damp and warm and still,
And soft with summer dreams;
The buds are bursting at their will,
And shy the half moon gleams.
My soul is cool, as bathed within
By dews that silent weep—
Like child that has confessed his sin,
And now will go to sleep.
My body ages, form and hue;
But when the spring winds blow,
My spirit stirs and buds anew,
Younger than long ago.
Lord, make me more a child, and more,
Till Time his own end bring,
And out of every winter sore
I pass into thy spring.