THE SWALLOW.
37
The fine, clear fire of joy that steals
Through all my spirit at what I see
In the glimpse my window's space reveals,—
That seems no mystery!
Through all my spirit at what I see
In the glimpse my window's space reveals,—
That seems no mystery!
But scarce for her joy can she utter her song;
Yet she knows not the beauty of skies or seas.
Is it bliss of living, so sweet and strong?
Is it love, which is more than these?
Yet she knows not the beauty of skies or seas.
Is it bliss of living, so sweet and strong?
Is it love, which is more than these?
O happy creature! what stirs thee so?
A spark of the gladness of God thou art.
Why should we seek to find and to know
The secret of thy heart?
A spark of the gladness of God thou art.
Why should we seek to find and to know
The secret of thy heart?
Before the gates of his mystery
Trembling we knock with an eager hand;
Silent behind them waiteth He;
Not yet may we understand.
Trembling we knock with an eager hand;
Silent behind them waiteth He;
Not yet may we understand.
But thrilling throughout the universe
Throbs the pulse of his mighty will,
Till we gain the knowledge of joy or curse
In the choice of good or ill.
Throbs the pulse of his mighty will,
Till we gain the knowledge of joy or curse
In the choice of good or ill.
