Songs of the Spirit

Up still and staggering to the doubtful goal, Feet dragging horribly behind, I move Deathlike for dearth and for despair of soul ; At last I drop. From Heaven there comes a Dove Bearing the semblance of the Man I love, And fountains and fresh grass by magic spell Are suddenly around me. And above I hear the voice my visions know so well : “ Well striven all this day against the power of Hell ! ” I know these mercies still diviner grow Each day I strive, but should I sit and rest One hour of dawn, and cry, “ I will not go Another step without more sleep,” that blest Dove flies away, the fountains are repressed, The grass is withered, and the angry sky Rages more fierce that day, and from the crest Of black foul mountains comes a bitter cry : “ He that returneth now shall in destruction die.” So I press on. Fresh strength from day to day Girds up my loins and beckons me on high, 50