O thou inhabitant of every soul,
Have we not seen thy gracious emblems grow
l' the tender lap of Nature at her prime,
And heard thy full-toned message through the whole
Song luted summer, when the rivers flow
In peace across the golden harvest time?
But now, when mists hang chilling on the wold,
And pale and voiceless every eve drops down,
We stay within the foldings of our cot,
And, nestling when the plaintive day is old,
Pull close the curtains—shutting Winter's frown,
We fall to inward yearnings, thought begot!
Then from his secret place Indwelling Love,—
Having no way but this—comes forth, nor sound
Foretells his coming; nor a motion breaks
Our meditation, till the uplifted Dove
ls in the midst of sudden glory found:
O rapturous Love, revealed for our dear sakes!