I dare to look thy way, and bow my head
To thy sweet name, as sunflower to the sun,
Though, peradventure, not so wisely fed
With garden fancies. Tears must now be shed,
Unnumber'd tears, till life or love be done!
XIII.
A THUNDERSTORM AT NIGHT.
The lightning is the shorthand of the storm
That tells of chaos; and I read the same
As one may read the writing of a name,—