Chapter IV

On us, so fondly fain
To tell what mother-pain
Of Nature makes the rain.
On us, so glad to show
The sorrow of her snow,
And all her winds that blow.

Us, who interpret right
Her mystic rose of light,
Her moony rune of night.

Us, who have utterance for
Each warm, flame-hearted star
That stammers from afar.

Who hear the tears and sighs
Of every bud that dies
While heav'n's dew on it lies.

Who see the power that dowers
The wildwood bosks and bowers
With musk of sap and flowers.

Who see what no man sees
In water, earth, and breeze,
And in the hearts of trees.

Turn not away Thy light,
O God!--Our strength is slight!
Help us who breast the height!
Have mercy, Infinite!
Have mercy!

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, (late) Printers to Her Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press

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