As stands the stern and sturdy oak,
When all its forest-frères are gone,
Before the woodman’s fatal stroke,
Or wintry tempest sweeping by,
With the leagued legions of the sky.
Then speed thou home, my wearied soul,
On angel-pinions; bend thine eye,
Unmoved, upon the glorious goal
That waits thy coming in the sky.
Ho, for the waters which arise