The storm clouds swirl against the moon,
The hawk flies black across the snow,
My steed shies at the shifting gloom,
The darkness thickens where I go.
But I ride on when stars are flown,
As one who journeys to his own.
From hamlets draped in frozen white
The flames of ruddy windows fall,
Above the lashing of the night
I hear the cheerful voices call.
The homely hearths are lit in vain
For one who rides across the plain.
The sharp blasts beat upon my breast,
The wolves bay loud behind my back;
I greet their howls with jest for jest,
And laugh to hear them on my track.
Across the night with terrors sown,
I spur and journey to my own.
From open graves on either side,
Wan fingers rise and beckon me;
Old wrongs, uprooted as I ride,
Cry out that right is yet to be.
Dead faces throng upon the way,
Dead voices speak and bid me stay.
The night hawk flies across the snow—
My way leads past the furthest hill;
Though beggared to the tryst I go,
Death waits to woo me to her will.
I press my spurs, I ride alone,
I laugh and journey to my own.
A PRAYER
Grant me but courage, Lord!
I ask not that Thou smooth the appointed path;
I ask not any joys the years afford,
I ask not even Thine averted wrath.
Let me but learn to smile—
Let me face lightly any blow that falls;
Bear bravely with my bondage all the while,
And hug my freedom within prison walls.
Thus when the end draws near,
With lifted head let me the potion quaff,
And so—as one who never learned to fear—
Pass on to meet Thy judgment with a laugh.