Xlix

Silence, loneliness, darkness-- These, and of these my fill, While God in the rush of the Maytide Without is working His will.

Without are the wind and the wall-flowers, The leaves and the nests and the rain, And in all of them God is making His beautiful purpose plain.

But I wait in a horror of strangeness-- A tool on His workshop floor, Worn to the butt, and banished His hand for evermore.