LXXXVI.
And, more than all, the heaven of that sad smile!
The lip of mercy, our immortal trust!
Did not that look, that very look, erewhile
Pour its o’ershadow’d beauty on the dust?
Wert thou not such when earth’s dark cloud hung o’er Thee?—
Surely thou wert! My heart grew hush’d before Thee,
Sinking, with all its passions, as the gust
Sank at thy voice, along its billowy way:
What had I there to do but kneel, and weep, and pray?