For the prescience of a far-off fear,
Which again and yet again flits by me,
Clouding all the sunshine as I go.
There is manna for the day’s supplying,
There are daily dews and daily balms,
Yet I shrink and shudder to remember
All the desert drought I yet may see.
Past the green oasis fare I, sighing,
Caring not to rest beneath the palms.
All my May is darkened by December,