Page:Preludes, Meynell, 1875.djvu/22

6 Sing thy sorrow, sing thy gladness.

In thy songs must wind and tree

Bear the fictions of thy sadness,

Thy humanity.

For their truth is not for thee.

Wait, and many a secret nest,

Many a hoarded winter-store

Will be hidden on thy breast.

Things thou longest for

Will not fear or shun thee more.

Thou shalt intimately lie

In the roots of flowers that thrust

Upwards from thee to the sky,

With no more distrust,

When they blossom from thy dust.

Silent labours of the rain

Shall be near thee, reconciled;

Little lives of leaves and grain,

All things shy and wild

Tell thee secrets, quiet child.