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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 2. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Poems of Nature (search)
e trumpets of the coming storm, To arrowy sleet and blinding snow Yon slanting lines of rain transform. Young hearts shall hail the drifted cold, As gayly as I did of old; And I, who watch them through the frosty pane, Unenvious, live in them my boyhood o'er again. Xxvi. And I will trust that He who heeds The life that hides in mead and wold, Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads, And stains these mosses green and gold, Will still, as He hath done, incline His gracious care to me and mine; Grant what we ask aright, from wrong debar, And, as the earth grows dark, make brighter every star! XXVII. I have not seen, I may not see, My hopes for man take form in fact, But God will give the victory In due time; in that faith I act. And he who sees the future sure, The baffling present may endure, And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads The heart's desires beyond the halting step of deeds. Xxviii. And thou, my song, I send thee forth, Where harsher songs of mine have flown;
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 2. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Poems Subjective and Reminiscent (search)
we climb Up the dizzy ways of time, Ever in the shadow shed By the forecast of our dread. Dread of mystery solved alone, Of the untried and unknown; Yet the end thereof may seem Like the falling of my dream. And this heart-consuming care, All our fears of here or there, Change and absence, loss and death, Prove but simple lack of faith. “ Thou, O Most Compassionate! Who didst stoop to our estate, Drinking of the cup we drain, Treading in our path of pain,— Through the doubt and mystery, Grant to us thy steps to see, And the grace to draw from thence Larger hope and confidence. Show thy vacant tomb, and let, As of old, the angels sit, Whispering, by its open door: ‘Fear not! He hath gone before!’ 1855. The barefoot boy. blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned — up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaun