Saturday, October 19, 2013

IV. Midnight.

By Louisa S. Guggenberger (1845–1895)
THERE are sea and sky about me,
  And yet nothing sense can mark;
For a mist fills all the midnight
  Adding blindness to its dark.
There is not the faintest echo        5
  From the life of yesterday:
Not the vaguest stir foretelling
  Of a morrow on the way.
’Tis negation’s hour of triumph
  In the absence of the sun;        10
’Tis the hour of endings, ended,
  Of beginnings, unbegun.
Yet the voice of awful silence
  Bids my waiting spirit hark;
There is action in the stillness,        15
  There is progress in the dark.
In the drift of things and forces
  Comes the better from the worse,
Swings the whole of Nature upward,
  Wakes, and thinks—a universe.        20
There will be more life to-morrow,
  And of life, more life that knows;
Though the sum of force be constant
  Yet the Living ever grows.
So we sing of evolution,        25
  And step strongly on our ways;
And we live through nights in patience,
  And we learn the worth of days.
In the silence of murk midnight
  Is revealed to me this thing:        30
Nothing hinders, all enables
  Nature’s vast awakening.

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