Sharing

On the far horizon thereHeaps of cloudy darkness rest;Though the wind is in the airThere is stupor east and west.

For the sky no change is making,Scarce we know it from the plain;Droop its eyelids never waking,Blinded by the misty rain;

Save on high one little spot,Round the baffled moon a spaceWhere the tumult ceaseth not:Wildly goes the midnight race!

And a joy doth rise in meUpward gazing on the sight,When I think that others seeIn yon clouds a like delight;

How perchance an aged manStruggling with the wind and rain,In the moonlight cold and wanFeels his heart grow young again;

As the cloudy rack goes by,How the life-blood mantles upTill the fountain deep and dryYields once more a sparkling cup.

Or upon the gazing childCometh down a thought of gloryWhich will keep him undefiledTill his head is old and hoary.

For it may be he hath wokeAnd hath raised his fair young form;Strangely on his eyes have brokeAll the splendours of the storm;

And his young soul forth doth leapWith the storm-clouds in the moon;And his heart the light will keepThough the vision passeth soon.

Thus a joy hath often laughedOn my soul from other skies,Bearing on its wings a draughtFrom the wells of Paradise,

For that not to me aloneComes a splendour out of fear;Where the light of heaven hath shoneThere is glory far and near.