It hovers and hangs on the labouring and trembling
⁠ascent of the dawn from the deep,
Till the sun's eye quicken the world and the waters, and
⁠smite it again into sleep.
Night, holy and starry, the fostress of souls, with the
⁠fragrance of heaven in her breath,
Subdues with the sense of her godhead the forces and
⁠mysteries of sorrow and death.
Eternal as dawn's is the comfort she gives: but the mist
⁠that beleaguers and slays
Comes, passes, and is not: the strength of it withers,
⁠appalled or assuaged by the day's.
Faith, haggard as Fear that had borne her, and dark as
⁠the sire that begat her, Despair,
Held rule on the soul of the world and the song of it
⁠saddening through ages that were;
Dim centuries that darkened and brightened and darkened
⁠again, and the soul of their song
Was great as their grief, and sublime as their suffering,
⁠and strong as their sorrows were strong.