See the floods rolling down darkened hills,
Hands tremble to stroke the glossy curls;
See the stars reflected in once bright pools,
Wind moaning through surrounding trees;
But lightning strikes, o’erturns the sapling by the pool.
Wind rises to a screaming wail, “They are blown, they are blown,
To a land where none can follow.”
Now where is that thing with feathers? Has left its perch in the soul?
They say it never stops—at all—
The storm that hastens on—which o’erturns the homes and dreams alike—
Must surely be sore indeed to silence that bird.
At once the driving rains pelt the hills without relief, pushing that little bird away.
But here comes the sun, so as to dispel the dreary mood,
And shout the advent of a new songmaster, in a bright, newfangled world of light.
Oh, to see that dawn! that radiance which reaches into each corner,
Takes shadows by the throat, and tosses them from sight and mind.
World, gaze upon Sight, the realization of things hoped for, the establishment of dreams!
