And backward, yet my eyes perceive Him not. 

 On the left hand, His works surround me still, 

 But He is absent,—on the right, I gaze, 

 Yet doth He hide Himself. 

 But well He knows 

 My way, and when the time of trial's o'er, 

 And the refining fire hath purg'd the dross, 

 I shall come forth as gold. My feet have kept 

 The path appointed, nor from His commands 

 Unduly swerved, for I have prized His word 

 More than my needful food. 

 Yet He performs 

 What His wise counsel hath decreed for me, 

 Though sometimes sinks my soften'd heart beneath 

 The terror of His stroke. 

 There are, who seize 

 With violence whate'er their eyes desire; 

 Gorging themselves upon the stolen flock 

 And leaving desolate the rifled hut 

 Of the defenceless. Solitary ones 

 Prev. P 50/285 next