Waking in the night to pray, Sleeping when the answer comes, Foolish are we even at play– Tearfully we beat our drums! Cast the good dry bread away,

The homely words how often read! How seldom fully known! ‘Which father of you, asked for br… Would give his son a stone?’ How oft has bitter tear been shed,

Were thou and I the white pinions On some eager, heaven-born dove, Swift would we mount to the old do… To our rest of old, my love! Were thou and I trembling strands

Uplifted is the stone And all mankind arisen! We are thy very own, We are no more in prison! What bitterest grief can stay

’Tis a poor drizzly morning, dark… The cloud has fallen, and filled w… The chimneyed city; and the smoke… And spreads diluted in the cloud,… A black precipitate, on miry stree…

It’s all very well, Said the Bell, To be the big Organ below! But the folk come and go, Said the Bell,

I envy the tree-tops that shake so… In winds that fill them full of he… I envy every little cloud that sha… With unseen angels evening in the… I envy most the youngest stars tha…

From out a windy cleft there comes… Of eyes unearthly, which go to and… Upon the people’s tumult, for belo… The nations smite each other: no a… Troubles their liquid rolling, or…

Power that is not of God, however… Is but the downward rushing and th… Of a swift meteor that hath lost i… In the one impulse which doth anim… The parent mass: emblem to me of f…

She sitteth at the Master’s feet In motionless employ; Her ears, her heart, her soul comp… Drinks in the tide of joy. Ah! who but she the glory knows

Up cam the tide wi’ a burst and a… And back gaed the stanes wi’ a whu… The king’s son walkit i’ the eveni… To hear the sea murmur and murr. Straucht ower the water slade frae…

Out of the gulf into the glory, Father, my soul cries out to be li… Dark is the woof of my dismal stor… Thorough thy sun—warp stormily dri… Out of the gulf into the glory,

The fact which suggested this poem… Blue sky above, blue sea below, Far off, the old Nile’s mouth, ’Twas a blue world, wherein did bl… A soft wind from the south.

I cannot write old verses here, Dead things a thousand years away, When all the life of the young yea… Is in the summer day. The roses make the world so sweet,

Little one, you must not fret That I take your clothes away; Better sleep you so will get, And at morning wake more gay– Saith the children’s mother.