Tarry thou the leisure of the Lord!
Ever the wise upon Him wait;
Early they sorrow, suffer late,
Yet at the last have their reward.

Shall then the very King sublime
Keep thee and me in constant thought,
Out of the countless names of naught
Swept on the surging stream of time?

Ah, but the glorious sun on high,
Searching the sea, fold on fold,
Gladdens with coronals of gold
Each troubled billow heaving by.

Though he remove him for a space,
Though gloom resume the sleeping sea,
Yet of his beams her dreams shall be,
Yet shall his face renew her grace.

Then when sorrow is outpoured,
Pain chokes the channels of thy blood,
Think upon the sun and the flood,
Tarry thou the leisure of the Lord.

[170]

SPRING IS NOT DEAD

Snow on the earth, though March is wellnigh over;
Ice on the flood;
Fingers of frost where late the hawthorn cover
Burgeoned with bud.
Yet in the drift the patient primrose hiding,
Yet in the stream the glittering troutlet gliding,
Yet from the root the sap still upward springing,
Yet overhead one faithful skylark singing,
"Spring is not dead!"

Brows fringed with snow, the furrowed brows of sorrow,
Cheeks pale with care:
Pulses of pain that throb from night till morrow;
Hearts of despair!
O, yet take comfort, still your joy approaches,
Dark is the hour that on the dawn encroaches,
April's own smile shall yet succeed your sighing,
April's own voice set every song-bird crying,
"Spring is not dead!"

[171]

AIM NOT TOO HIGH

(To an Old English air)