The night-winds sigh and whisper o’er the little ship,
While from the far-off, shadowy hills of Galilee
Their cool breath gently fans the weary twelve, as rests
A loving hand upon a fevered, aching brow.
Deserted lies the quiet, moon-lit shore, but all
The air is heavy with the perfume of the grass,
Crushed into fragrance by the waiting multitude
Whom Jesus fed. The Giver of the bread of life
Has gone apart upon the mountain-side to pray,
Alone.