O! weary waste of shoreless blue
Where weary wing may never rest!
O! awful brightness burning through
The barrier of the gate of rest!
My spirit longs to reach the strand
Of sorrow-soothing shadowland.
But what can this poor spirit wear
To hide the naked wounds, pain-kissed
Beneath the searching, ceaseless glare
Of cloudless burning amethyst?
Where can the sad grey spirit fly
The unrelenting agony?
O! for some shadow-haunted stream
Where tired eyes might fall asleep,
And in the peace of darkling dream
See Sorrow's pageant homeward creep,
Feel angel hands with white caress
Soothe eyelids dark with heaviness!
O! for some minster where the balm
Of cooling touch my wounds might heal;
Where always dwells a Sabbath calm,
Made sweeter by the solemn peal
Of bells, that trembling fill the air
With noble notes of perfect prayer!