XIX.

In every forehead now I see a sky Catching the dawn; I hear the wintriest breeze About me blow the news the Lord is nigh. Long is the night, dark are the polar seas, Yet slanting suns ascend the northern hill. Round Spring's own steps the oozy waters freeze But hold them not. Dreamers are sleeping still, But labourers, light-stung, from their slumber start: Faith sees the ripening ears with harvest fill When but green blades the clinging earth-clods part.