Is it the foot of God Upon the waters, that they seethe and blaze As when of old He trod The desert ways, And through the night, Fearful and far His pillar pour'd its light? O! for strong wings to fly Under the limit of yon dazzling verge, Where bright tints rapidly In brighter merge, And yet more bright Till light becomes invisible through light. What wonder that of yore Men held thee for a deity, great Sun, Kindling thy pyre before Thy race is run, Casting life down At pleasure, to resume it as a crown? Or that our holier prayer Still consecrates thy symbol? that our fanes Plant their pure altars where Thine eastern glory rains, And thy bright west Drops prophet-mantles on our beds of rest? Here, watching, let us kneel Through the still darkness of this grave-like time, Till on our ears shall steal A whisper, then a chime, And then a chorus—Earth has burst her prison, The Sign is in the skies,—the sun is risen!
Menella Bute Smedley’s other poems:
Poems of other poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием):
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