Ii

But on some other day, when skies unroll Their storm-cloud banners only, and the beat Of the wild tempest is like hurrying feet That stay not, halt not, till they reach the goal; When doubt and dread assail my fainting soul, And, when I fain God’s mercy would entreat, Even the prayers my trembling lips repeat Seem like the clamor of harsh bells that toll-- Then, thinking of thee in some far, dim realm,-- Dim to our senses, glorious to thine,-- Where never once a cruel wind doth blow, Nor storm, nor stress, come near thee to o’erwhelm, I lift mine eyes unto the hills divine, And cry: “Thank God, thank God, he does not know!”