Page:Preludes, Meynell, 1875.djvu/83

Rh Not our great nights

Whose dark unmeasured windy mystery,

Whose falls, whose heights

No heart doth feel, no eye doth see,

For ever.

No, Lord, no.

Nor our great open secret snow,

Where comes the sun at even and morn

To be alone,

And wild winds seeking solitude for their torn

And wounded souls. Can these atone,

Shall these repay?

No, nor the dawns we know,

Whose thoughts grow light on our eternal snow.

We mourn, we pray:

Oh, melt our snows to rain.

How can we reach thee?

Lay us low.

Level us with the plain,

Oh, we beseech thee.

Second Voice:

O cold and glorious!

O lonely and victorious!