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What though my voice cease like a moan o' the wind?
By Thomas Runciman
What though my voice cease like a moan o' the wind?
Not the less shall I
Cast on this life a kindly eye,
Glad if through its mystery
Faint gleams of love and truth glance o'er my mind.
What though I end like a spring leaf shed on the wind?
Restrained by pure-eyed Sorrow's hand,
Lithe Joy through this wondrous land
Leads me; nothing have I scanned
Unmixed with good. Fate's sharpest stroke is kind.
To me, thoughts lived of old anew are born
From glances at the unsullied sea,
Or breath of morning purity,
From cloud or blown grass tossing free,
Or frail dew quivering on leaf, rose or thorn.
What though behind me all is mist and shade,
Yet warmth of afterglow bathes all.
Hallowed spirits move and call
Each to me, a willing thrall,
With kindly speech of mountain, plain or glade.
Before me, through the veil that covers all,
Rays of a vasty Dawn strike high
To the zenith of the sky.
Intense, yet low as true love's sigh,
Prophetic voices to my spirit call.
So, though my voice cease like a moan o' the wind,
Not the less shall I
Cast on life a kindly eye,
Glad if through its mystery
Stray gleams of love and truth illume my mind.
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