But, Lord, thy child will be sad, As sad as it pleaseth thee; Will sit, not needing to be glad, Till thou bid sadness flee; And drawing near With a simple cheer, Speak one true word to me. Another song in a low minor key From awful holy calm, as this from grief, I weave, a silken flower, into my web, That goes straight on, with simply crossing lines, Floating few colours upward to the sight. Ah, holy midnight of the soul, When stars alone are high; When winds are dead, or at their goal, And sea-waves only sigh! Ambition faints from out the will; Asleep sad longing lies; All hope of good, all fear of ill, All need of action dies; Because God is; and claims the life He kindled in thy brain; And thou in Him, rapt far from strife, Diest and liv'st again. It was a changed and wintry time to him; But visited by April airs and scents, That came with sudden presence, unforetold; As brushed from off the outer spheres of spring In the new singing world, by winds of sighs, That wandering swept across the glad _To be_. Strange longings that he never knew till now, A sense of want, yea of an infinite need, Cried out within him--rather moaned than cried. And he would sit a silent hour and gaze Upon the distant hills with dazzling snow Upon their peaks, and thence, adown their sides, Streaked vaporous, or starred in solid blue. And then a shadowy sense arose in him, As if behind those world-inclosing hills, There sat a mighty woman, with a face As calm as life, when its intensity Pushes it nigh to death, waiting for him, To make him grand for ever with a kiss, And send him silent through the toning worlds.