The arm that threw the disc of day
Across the sky we know must dim,
The hand that strewed the Milky Way
Where angels swim,
From far beyond the farthest star,
Composed the darkness that we are.
His light it is that we call ours:
The morning glories’ morning fades;
All shadows melt; the old grey hours
Dissolve like shades,
By faint degrees and unaware,
Mere vapors on the fluttering air.
Like clouds that billow and decrease,
False fancies fluff, hard cares deflate;
Grief irons out the wanton crease
For small and great
Whose vaunting thoughts, that vainly climb
Ambition’s tow’r, are clipped by Time.
Yet we are summoned to arise,
Called forth from clay and parchèd dust
To mount life’s brae and lift our eyes,
And dare to trust
That all that is or was before
Shall grow our vines from more to more,
Shall grow, from more to more, our vines
And round to ripeness rapture’s grape
Before the ruddled eve declines…
God leaves agape
His garden door, that hand in hand
We enter in the once-lost land.