NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND.
Reading edition
A poet sat in his oaken chair, The pen in his eager hand, Awaiting the voice that should declare His Lord’s divine command. The sad winds sobbed against the pane, The tempest’s tramp he heard As it scourged the night with a hissing rain— But the Poet wrote never a word. Then came a burst of martial mirth, And mighty cannon roared Till they shook the beams of the steadfast earth— ’Twas not the voice of the Lord. In the Poet’s heart a memory rose Of love’s first passionate thrill That, kindling, grows as the red fire glows— But the pen was idle, still; When lo, a timid voice at the door, And a child, with sweet delight, Called “Father!” and “Father!” over and o’er— The poem was written that night.
