But this I fear—lest thou shouldst grow
To me so small and strange,
So distant I should never know
On thee a shade of change,
Although great earthquakes should uplift
Deep mountains from their base,
And thy continual motion shift
The lands upon thy face;—
The grass, the flowers, the dews that lie
Upon them as before—
Driven upwards evermore, lest I
Should love these things no more.
Even now thou dimly hast a place
In deep star galaxies!
And I, driven ever on through space,
Have lost thee in the skies!
THE LOST HOUSE.
Out of thy door I run to do the thing
That calls upon me. Straight the wind of words
Whoops from mine ears the sounds of them that sing
About their work, "My God, my father-king!"
I turn in haste to see thy blessed door,
But, lo, a cloud of flies and bats and birds,
And stalking vapours, and vague monster-herds
Have risen and lighted, rushed and swollen between!
Ah me! the house of peace is there no more.
Was it a dream then?—Walls, fireside, and floor,
And sweet obedience, loving, calm, and free,
Are vanished—gone as they had never been!
I labour groaning. Comes a sudden sheen!—
And I am kneeling at my father's knee,
Sighing with joy, and hoping utterly.