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THOUGH Night hath climbed her peak of highest noon, And bitter blasts the screaming autumn whirl, All night through archways of the bridgèd pearl And portals of pure silver walks the moon. Wake on, my soul, nor crouch to agony: Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy, And dross to gold with glorious alchemy, Basing thy throne above the world’s annoy. Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and ruth That roar beneath; unshaken peace hath won thee: So shall thou pierce the woven glooms of truth; So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee; So in thine hour of dawn, the body’s youth, An honourable eld shall come upon thee. |