Sweet are the uses of our sorrows when,
Facing at length the sheer futility
Of mortal yearning for the unattained,
We turn to God's dear promises and rest—
As babe with head upon the mother's breast.
And blest shall we be when all the buffeting
(Spindrift of hate and sting of homeless wrath
Lashing at wings downbent to fancied goal)
Drives us to soar, ceasing our earthward quest—
A wind-blown bird returning to the nest.
Sweet and most blest of all it is to know
Throughout the pain, the blinding buffeting,
"This is but dream from which I am awaking,"
Glad, as a child who hears, through nightmare's dread,
A loved voice gently speaking beside his bed.
And, roused from the mists of sleep, will joyous arise
To find his father's smile, his mother's face,
Meeting his opened eyes.
Serene beyond simile
Does God tender vigil keep, our dream unknown,
Nor knowing a dreamer, only His child at rest,
Awaiting Love's summons to day's divine behest.
