23.07.2007, 08:32
THE pallid watcher of the eastern skies
Who through the suffering night did wait forlorn,
When comes the first faint purple of the morn
Waiteth no longer. To his happy eyes
The promised near the promise following flies,
Nor is his soul with sullen anguish torn,
Nor curseth he the day when he was born.
From the damp ground he doth awondering rise,
Firm set his face against the gathering glory,
To be so sure that this at last is this,
And not the ancient, bitter-lying story.
Now he doth pray for strength to bear the bliss,
Whlile, bending o'er the mountain red and hoary,
The morning crowns him with a golden kiss.
Who through the suffering night did wait forlorn,
When comes the first faint purple of the morn
Waiteth no longer. To his happy eyes
The promised near the promise following flies,
Nor is his soul with sullen anguish torn,
Nor curseth he the day when he was born.
From the damp ground he doth awondering rise,
Firm set his face against the gathering glory,
To be so sure that this at last is this,
And not the ancient, bitter-lying story.
Now he doth pray for strength to bear the bliss,
Whlile, bending o'er the mountain red and hoary,
The morning crowns him with a golden kiss.