My slumber steep
In dreams of haste,
That only sleep,
No rest, I taste—
With stiflings, rimes of rote,
And fingers on my throat.
Satan, thy might
I do defy;
Live core of night
I patient lie:
A wind comes up the gray
Will blow thee clean away.
Christ's angel, Death,
All radiant white,
With one cold breath
Will scare thee quite,
And give my lungs an air
As fresh as answered prayer.
So, Satan, do
Thy worst with me
Until the True
Shall set me free,
And end what he began,
By making me a man.
SONG-SERMON.
Lord, what is man
That thou art mindful of him!
Though in creation's van,
Lord, what is man!
He wills less than he can,
Lets his ideal scoff him!
Lord, what is man
That thou art mindful of him!
SHADOWS.
All things are shadows of thee, Lord;
The sun himself is but thy shade;
My spirit is the shadow of thy word,
A thing that thou hast said.
Diamonds are shadows of the sun,
They gleam as after him they hark:
My soul some arrows of thy light hath won.
And feebly fights the dark!
All knowledges are broken shades,
In gulfs of dark a scattered horde:
Together rush the parted glory-grades—
Then, lo, thy garment, Lord!