Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/6

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The lake's fair surface is not always clear.
If but a traveller, or a rash child near,
At random throw a stone upon its glass,
A dark ooze rises in a vapoury mass;
But by degrees more tranquil and serene,
The wave disturbed gets smooth as it had been,
And pure, austere, resplendent as before,
The blue, blue sky reflects itself once more.

Thus oft alas! the discords of the earth
Troubling the sweet peace of my thoughts, give birth
To unclean slime, that in dense spirals roll
To mar thy gracious image in my soul.
But when the murm'ring crowd away has fled,
And the calm enters in my sense instead,
The veil is gone; thy loving face again
Gleams in my heart, as sunlight after rain.

T. D.