HE WHO SITS IN THE GLOOM.

Not a day goes by, but I read somewhere In this wonderful world of ours, That some lowly being has raised his soul And become as the Norman towers. From out of the sweat and the slavish grind, From the depths where but hope is known, There has risen a star, serene and pure, That reacheth the Heavenly throne. And no one knoweth his neighbor’s lot, Or divineth the Father’s will, For he who sits in the gloom tonight May tomorrow walk on the hill; For swift as the flash of a falcon’s wing, In the gloaming homeward flight, Comes the change that lifteth the downcast up, And the darkness turns to light.