III.

Dearth of God, of Love a dearth, Rolls my thought, a cloudy Earth, Through the sullen noon that fears, Yet expects the morning-spears.

Ere they glisten, ere they threat, All my heart lies cold and wet, Prisoned fog between the hills, Cheerless pulse of midnight rills.

'Tis the darkness that has crept Where the purple life is kept; All the veins to thought supply Murk from out the jealous sky.

Blood that makes the face a dawn, Mother's breast to life, is gone: Strikes my waste no hoof that's bright Into sparkles of delight.

Heavy freight of care and pain, Want of friends, and God's disdain, Loveless home, and meagre fate In the midnight well may wait.

Well may such an Earth forlorn Shudder on the brink of morn; But the great breath will not stay, Strands me on the reefs of day.