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SAINT MARGARET
For, when the sun is over-brimming
Heaven’s chalice of profoundest blue,
The downs run o’er with rapture, too;
Their russet cup hath a golden rimming,
And Glory swings in the grass like dew:
But the grey clouds, with their daylong weeping
Droop o’er lonely stretches vast
With mute mournfulness o’ercast—
Till Comfort on amber wings comes leaping
Out of the evening sky at last:
And when, thro’ folds of violet cloud
Steals forth a vague pathetic sense,
Like some hid grief’s half-evidence,
The downs, like one to patience vow’d
Wait, in a sober, meek suspense:—
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