On the far horizon there Heaps of cloudy darkness rest; Though the wind is in the air There is stupor east and west. For the sky no change is making, Scarce we know it from the plain; Droop its eyelids never waking, Blinded by the misty rain; Save on high one little spot, Round the baffled moon a space Where the tumult ceaseth not: Wildly goes the midnight race! And a joy doth rise in me Upward gazing on the sight, When I think that others see In yon clouds a like delight; How perchance an aged man Struggling with the wind and rain, In the moonlight cold and wan Feels his heart grow young again; As the cloudy rack goes by, How the life-blood mantles up Till the fountain deep and dry Yields once more a sparkling cup. Or upon the gazing child Cometh down a thought of glory Which will keep him undefiled Till his head is old and hoary. For it may be he hath woke And hath raised his fair young form; Strangely on his eyes have broke All the splendours of the storm; And his young soul forth doth leap With the storm-clouds in the moon; And his heart the light will keep Though the vision passeth soon. Thus a joy hath often laughed On my soul from other skies, Bearing on its wings a draught From the wells of Paradise, For that not to me alone Comes a splendour out of fear; Where the light of heaven hath shone There is glory far and near.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.
