Page:A midsummer holiday and other poems (IA midsummerholiday00swin).pdf/86

 Heaven's height bows down to him, signed with his token, And the sea's depth, moved as a heart that yearns, Heaves up to him, strong as a heart half broken, A heart that breaks in a prayer that burns. Of cloud is the shrine of his worship moulded, But the altar therein is of sea-shaped stone, Whereon, with the strength of his wide wings folded, Sits death in the dark, alone.

He hears the word of his servant spoken, The word that the wind his servant saith; Storm writes on the front of the night his token, That the skies may seem to bow down to death. But the clouds that stoop and the storms that minister Serve but as thralls that fulfil their tasks; And his seal is not set save here on the sinister Crests reared of the crownless casques.