  FORTH from a cloud, Loosed as a greyhound is loosed, To sweep down the sky, To sweep down the hill, A torrent of water unnoosed— The rain rushes on aloud, And becometh a stream on the earth, and still Groweth and spreadeth as its stream sweeps by. And the stones of its course Are bright with its joy as it leaps Around them in might, Beyond them in joy; For it sings round the rocky heaps, From the brightness of its force; Nor can pebbles nor boulders of granite cloy In their multitude the stream’s delight. With a torrent’s bliss, The Martyr Stephen receives The stones for his head, The stones for his breast, And smiles from his strength that believes: “Sweet stones of the brook!”—for this Is the singing, the song of his heart expressed, As he kneels, looking up, his hands outspread. A river of blood, the tide Of martyrdom, gathers round His soul as a stream; With tides of his blood as they bound From temple and mouth and side ... Stones of offence, dark stones from the torrent wrenched, Ye strike the trend of his joy as a dream! |
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