All things grow still before thine awful face. 
Now fails the lover’s sigh ;  Sleep’s angel clings 
About the children with her dreamy wings, 
And all the world is silent for a space. 
The waving of thy dusky plumes in heaven 
Alone breathes gentle music to mine ears, 
So that despair is fain to flee, and fear 
Cowers far away amid the shades of even. 
 
“ Hope, ” is thy whisper, “ hope, and trust in 
Night ; 
My realm is the eternal, and my power 
The absolute.  My child, gird on thy strength ; 
Clothe limbs with lustiness, and mind with might, 
That, communing with me, though for an hour, 
Thou mayest conquer when day comes at length.” 
 
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