  By the Author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” Gray heavens, gray earth, gray sea, gray sky, Yet rifted with strange gleams of gold, Downward, all’s dark; but up on high Walk our white angels,—dear of old. Strong faith in God and trust in man, In patience we possess our souls; Eastward, grey ghosts may linger wan, But westward, back the shadow rolls. Life’s broken urns with moss are clad, And grass springs greenest over graves; The shipwrecked sailor reckons glad, Not what he lost, but what he saves. Our sun has set, but in his ray The hill-tops shine like saints new-born: His after-glow of night makes day, And when we wake it will be morn. decorative line |
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