Our deeds avail not; and our dreams are thrust
Into the dark and wither from the sky.
We live in duress, and to sweetness die;
And lo! our guerdon is the world's distrust.
Yet have we dreamt of judgment that is just,
And seen a splendour trailing from on high;
From mean abortion mounts our piteous cry:
“Out of the dust, O Christ! out of the dust!”
We are as leaves within the winter gale,
And are through tribulation darkly driven;
And all the promise that the prime hath given
Is as faint smoke before the winds that wail.
Wan from the drowning pools of bitter bale
Our futile faces front the hush of heaven!