Page:Astrophel and other poems (IA astrophelotherpo00swiniala).pdf/35

 To brood on the world that is thine by his grace for a span, Conceals and reveals in the semblance of things that are Thine immanent presence, the pulse of thy heart's life, Pan.

The fierce mid noon that wakens and warms the snake Conceals thy mercy, reveals thy wrath: and again The dew-bright hour that assuages the twilight brake Conceals thy wrath and reveals thy mercy: then Thou art fearful only for evil souls of men That feel with nightfall the serpent within them wake, And hate the holy darkness on glade and glen.

Yea, then we know not and dream not if ill things be, Or if aught of the work of the wrong of the world be thine. We hear not the footfall of terror that treads the sea, We hear not the moan of winds that assail the pine: