OFF SHORE.
83
The weft of the night,
At the sound of the strings of the music of morning, falls
dumb with delight.
He gives forth his word,
And the word that he saith,
Ere well it be heard,
Strikes darkness to death;
For the thought of his heart is the sunrise, and dawn as
the sound of his breath.
And the strength of its pulses
That passion makes proud
Confounds and convulses
The depths of the cloud
Of the darkness that heaven was engirt with, divided and
rent as a shroud,
