a last dream.
21
Be it then—rest. All round the scented coast
Flashes the living sea; and on my brow
I feel the silken touches of strange winds;
While overhead such light, and sumptuous blue,
And rustle of great plumes! Still thought toils on
In memory:—and over me those words
That kindle the wild gleam around, throb out:
And still I hear an under voice which says,
That what we do is better than ourselves,
Being held unto the service of His will
By the strong hand that fashioned us. Even so.
But by that stair I climb to God at last,
Trampling on ease and low usurping wants;
And through innumerable spheres upreaching,
And Nights and Days till I am lost in Him.
Flashes the living sea; and on my brow
I feel the silken touches of strange winds;
While overhead such light, and sumptuous blue,
And rustle of great plumes! Still thought toils on
In memory:—and over me those words
That kindle the wild gleam around, throb out:
And still I hear an under voice which says,
That what we do is better than ourselves,
Being held unto the service of His will
By the strong hand that fashioned us. Even so.
But by that stair I climb to God at last,
Trampling on ease and low usurping wants;
And through innumerable spheres upreaching,
And Nights and Days till I am lost in Him.
