V The Deeps
Reading edition
The Deeps
I
Spirit, tho’ without a name,
Great, the left hand of God;
Who coolest the quick flame
And bendest back the rod
His awful right hand bears,
Till the dull worm of earth
No worse in darkness fares
Than things of brighter birth,
Nor in the lapse of hell
All everlasting gloom,
Help us to suffer well
These dark days of our doom.
Swift Smiter of extremes,
Who only lettest us live;
Who feedest with bright dreams
At midnight, and dost give
Even to the poorest wretch
Of this distressful land
A draught, a rag, a stretch
Of soil, a loving hand,
Ours too the guardian Thou;
And if no other good
Thou wilt bestow, endow
At least with fortitude.
II
Long, long the barren years.
A deeper darkness grows;
The road-side tree appears
No more; the shadows close.
Lost, I sit down with night
And weave night-horrors here—
Sad voices heard in flight,
And warnings in the air,
And convocations of thunder
Above tumultuous woods,
And white stars weeping under
Black threatening of clouds.