Page:The year's at the spring.djvu/100

 THE • YEAR'S • AT • THE • SPRING

He triumphs now, the dead,

Beholding London's gloom.

Our wearier spirit faints,

Vexed in the world's employ:

His soul was of the saints;

And art to him was joy.

King, tried in fires of woe!

Men hunger for thy grace:

And through the night I go,

Loving thy mournful face.

Yet when the city sleeps;

When all the cries are still:

The stars and heavenly deeps

Work out a perfect will.

LIONEL JOHNSON 68