{29}

Can make of you? The wandering of your clock,

That hammers nails into your brain and hands,

The coming of the dawn, that cruel dawn,

With icy, deathlike eyes and hollow voice,

Announcing mercilessly that the day

Hath come? And were you not afraid, when night

Set in again, with redhot eyeballs, with

The lonely wringing of your soul between

Her hands, like linen, that she washed in tears,

In blood, in rivers of despair? Oh, see!

Here comes with gentle wing and loving eye

Sweet Rest, and lays her mantle round your shoulders,

And bids you fear no more, but listen to

The birds' first Alleluia to the morn,

That dances o'er the dew, up to the dawn,

And be it e'er so cold, so lifeless, like

The last of all the dawn they sang to. Fear

{30}

Is banished, anguish quenched in all the waters

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