Weather of the Soul
There is a world of being We range from pole to pole, Through seasons of the spirit And weather of the soul. It has its new-born Aprils, With gladness in the air, Its golden Junes of rapture, Its winters of despair. And in its tranquil autumns We halt to re-enforce Our tattered scarlet pennons With valor and resource. From undiscovered regions Only the angels know, Great winds of aspiration Perpetually blow, To free the sap of impulse From torpor of distrust, And into flowers of joyance Quicken the sentient dust. From nowhere of a sudden Loom sudden clouds of fault, With thunders of oppression And lightnings of revolt. With hush of apprehension And quaking of the heart, There breed the storms of anger, And floods of sorrow start. And there shall fall,—how gently!— To make them fertile yet, The rain of absolution On acres of regret. Till snows of mercy cover The dream that shall come true, When time makes all things wondrous, And life makes all things new.
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