Where oft the horizon trembles with the change
Of wind and wave; and hope, too hale, oft mourns
Fair promises, like skies that fade in fog.
A man alone?—And yet the moods of man
May make men love us for our manliness,
Who draw them, Christ-like through our sympathy,
Toward self,—God’s image here, and thus toward Him.”
“But draw them how?” I cried. “Woe me, I stand,
A poet born, who deem’d his Muse had fled;
That time and trouble had a stone roll’d up,