  Afar from his wife and his sons and his daughters, The fisherman grapples for gain or loss; Beneath him the silent midnight waters; Above him the blaze of the Southern Cross: And ever his thoughts on the breeze hie homeward, As he calls to the watcher again and again,— “O what of the night: is it dark or bright?” And ever there cometh the old refrain,— “The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing, The midnight shadows fly. The Cross is bending, the night is ending, The day is drawing nigh.” Again, on the storm-swept winter waters, He battles the billows that tumble and toss; And he thinks of the weeping of wives and daughters, As the clouds fly over the Southern Cross. When sheets are rending and cables strain, How sweet to his ear come the words of cheer, And the sound of the watcher’s old refrain,— “The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing, The midnight shadows fly. The Cross is bending, the night is ending, The day is drawing nigh.” . . . . . . Far out, far out on Life’s wild waters, Where storms are howling, where breakers toss, How many of earth’s fair sons and daughters Are drifting and dragging to gain or loss! But ever the Stars of Hope are shining, Through calm and tempest, through wind and rain; And soft through the night, be it dark or bright, The heart still echoes the old refrain,— “The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing, The midnight shadows fly. The Cross is bending, the night is ending. The day is drawing nigh.” |
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