- From: Mike Clayton-Swift <cock.munching@xxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Sat, 25 Feb 2006 15:32:24 +0000
The midnight's thick and heavy gloom
Fell sadly, sadly as the heap
On the last bed where mortals sleep,
While Nature, hid as in a tomb,
Awaited light and life's return,
The resurrection of the morn.
Flowers, sunshine, beauty, all had gone,
Had vanished, and I was alone,
Alone! alone! no sound or sight
The straining ear or eye to bless,
Methought that all things fair and bright
Had fallen again to nothingness;
Alone! alone! I seemed to be
A shipwreck of infinity.
But solitude and darkness brought
An hour with awful musings fraught;
Oh there are deep, still moments when
The bottom of our hearts is seen,
And there's a voice we never hear
In the rude world's unholy din--
A voice that speaks not to the ear,
But ghost-like comes when none are near,
And whispers to the soul within.
It speaks, we look around and see
That all things dear and fond and fair,
That hope had said would bless us, bear
Death's sad inscription, "Vanity."
That voice, that whisper of heaven's love,
Oft comes to warn, instruct, reprove,
It speaks of buried friends, of eyes
Whose light we never more may see,
Of what we are and yet maybe,
Of life, of death, of mysteries,
Sad, solemn, terrible, sublime;
It bids us from the brink of time
Look onward to eternity--
That crumbling brink from which the day,
The hour, the moment, slide away
To melt like snowflakes in that sea,
Dark, shoreless, bottomless, unknown,
Where all our yesterdays are gone.
How good it is to steal an hour
From sleep, and close the weary eyesOn earth's gay nothings in disguise.
A setting sun, a faded flower,
The wail of brook or breeze, has power
To speak a wisdom to the heart
That tongue or pen can ne'er impart.
The mystic voice that comes from hill,
Grove, lake, or insect-peopled sod,
When all without, within, is still,
Is Nature's voice, the voice of God.
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