by Nina Frances Layard
And all the dank hair of the hurrying rain,
Flung backward by the wind, did stream and fly
Across the anxious forehead of the sky,
And rattling lashed my shaken window-pane
With sudden spotted sounds, that yet again
Sink to a lighter fingering, or die
Into a tinkling treble by-and-by,
Soft as the falling of wind-scattered grain.
So is my sorrow as the streaming drift,
That from the mighty shoulders of a cloud
Is shaken back and tangled in the blast;
So is my dreadful sorrow, but I lift
A trembling hand to God and cry aloud
That He shall make it music at the last.
Wednesday, January 22, 2020
Across the Anxious Forehead of the Sky
Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
Post a Comment
Please understand that this weblog runs on a third-party comment system, not on Blogger's comment system. If you have come by way of a mobile device and can see this message, you may have landed on the Blogger comment page, or the third party commenting system has not yet completely loaded; your comments will only be shown on this page and not on the page most people will see, and it is much more likely that your comment will be missed.