I am weary, and something lonely;
And can only think, think. 
If there were some water only,
That a spirit might drink, drink! 
And rise
With light in the eyes,
And a crown of hope on the brow;
And walk in outgoing gladness,—­
Not sit in an inward sadness—­
As now!

But, Lord, thy child will be sad,
As sad as it pleaseth thee;
Will sit, not needing to be glad,
Till thou bid sadness flee;
And drawing near
With a simple cheer,
Speak one true word to me.

Another song in a low minor key
From awful holy calm, as this from grief,
I weave, a silken flower, into my web,
That goes straight on, with simply crossing lines,
Floating few colours upward to the sight.

Ah, holy midnight of the soul,
When stars alone are high;
When winds are dead, or at their goal,
And sea-waves only sigh!

        Ambition faints from out the will;
          Asleep sad longing lies;
        All hope of good, all fear of ill,
          All need of action dies;

        Because God is; and claims the life
          He kindled in thy brain;
        And thou in Him, rapt far from strife,
          Diest and liv’st again.

It was a changed and wintry time to him;
But visited by April airs and scents,
That came with sudden presence, unforetold;
As brushed from off the outer spheres of spring
In the new singing world, by winds of sighs,
That wandering swept across the glad To be. 
Strange longings that he never knew till now,
A sense of want, yea of an infinite need,
Cried out within him—­rather moaned than cried. 
And he would sit a silent hour and gaze
Upon the distant hills with dazzling snow
Upon their peaks, and thence, adown their sides,
Streaked vaporous, or starred in solid blue. 
And then a shadowy sense arose in him,
As if behind those world-inclosing hills,
There sat a mighty woman, with a face
As calm as life, when its intensity
Pushes it nigh to death, waiting for him,
To make him grand for ever with a kiss,
And send him silent through the toning worlds.

The father saw him waning.  The proud sire
Beheld his pride go drooping in the cold
Down, down to the warm earth; and gave God thanks
That he was old.  But evermore the son
Looked up and smiled as he had heard strange news,
Across the waste, of primrose-buds and flowers. 
Then again to his father he would come
Seeking for comfort, as a troubled child,
And with the same child’s hope of comfort there. 
Sure there is one great Father in the heavens,
Since every word of good from fathers’ lips
Falleth with such authority, although
They are but men as we:  God speaks in them. 
So this poor son who neared the unknown death,
Took comfort in his father’s tenderness,
And made him strong to die.  One day he came,