Not sometimes, but to him that heeds the whole And in the Ample reads his personal page, Laboring to reconcile, content, assuage The vexed conditions of his heritage, Forever waits an angel at the goal. And ills seem but as food for spirits sage, And grief becomes a dark apparelage, The weed and wearing of the sacred soul. Might I but count, but here, one watchlight spark! But vain, O vain this turning for the light, Vain as a groping hand to rend the dark-- I call, entangled in the night, a night Of wind and voices, but the gusty roll Is vague, nor comes their cheer of pilotage. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO RED ROSES ACROSS THE MOON by WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) THE DAUGHTERS OF ATLAS by AESCHYLUS COMMENDATORY VERSES TO MASSINGER'S PLAY, 'THE BONDMAN' by WILLIAM BASSE NOT YE WHO GOAD by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON TO A FRIEND by GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE A SONG (1) by LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON SIR WILLOUGHBY BRANKSOME by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE |