|
When the low heavy sky weighs like a lid |
In those old times wherein Theology |
To pay his ransom man must toil |
Then I will dream of blue horizons deep; |
I know your heart, which overflows |
I am as lovely as a dream in stone, |
Thou, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still, |
Robed in a silken robe that shines and shakes, |
Fair is the sun when first he flames above, |