Page:Shingle-short-Baughan-1908.djvu/212

 As, a throne to the seated Sun, A voice to the Wind and Rain, A gem to the breast of Earth, A dwelling for Balms and Dew, Up, out of myself I drew; Then, out of myself again On, into a mother grew! Shining, shimmering, singing, among Every year a goodlier throng— The Wind taught words to their delicate echo, The Light lay fondling their tresses long; Every year, a wealthier shimmer, Every season, a fuller song.... Hark! loud the Storm-wind blows, Rips, rends, and lashes! Sun-red the Fire glows, Blood-red it flashes! Lo! where my Young-ones rose!.... Lo! where the Clover grows Rich from their ashes!

Ay! still by Earth and Skies, By the Light, cherish’d, Lo! where in alter’d guise Round me they still arise— Alter’d, nor perish’d! While the Powers that built and framed, Yea, that prosper’d me, and maim’d, Here, still here, my station claim’d, Still unto their purpose bound me Here, and here what fruits have found me, Lonely left, but unashamed!