VI.

O sorrow-stricken Voice, so piercing sweet! Blinding my eyes with tears, smiting my heart Like some fire-pointed, swift-descending dart, And giving strength unto my climbing feet Seeking those dim and misty hills of blue. Lo! the great mountains at thy music thrilled, And all their deep recesses echoes filled— Near and more near the sunlit summits grew! The little birds that gathered, unafraid, On berry-laden boughs beside my way Mingled thy cadence with their roundelay— Its joyousness grown sweeter through thy shade. O Voice of love and grief, sad for my sin, What ways were thine so poor a thing to win!