Page:A midsummer holiday and other poems (IA midsummerholiday00swin).pdf/86

Heaven's height bows down to him, signed with his token,
⁠And the sea's depth, moved as a heart that yearns,
Heaves up to him, strong as a heart half broken,
⁠A heart that breaks in a prayer that burns.
Of cloud is the shrine of his worship moulded,
⁠But the altar therein is of sea-shaped stone,
Whereon, with the strength of his wide wings folded,
⁠Sits death in the dark, alone.

He hears the word of his servant spoken,
⁠The word that the wind his servant saith;
Storm writes on the front of the night his token,
⁠That the skies may seem to bow down to death.
But the clouds that stoop and the storms that minister
⁠Serve but as thralls that fulfil their tasks;
And his seal is not set save here on the sinister
⁠Crests reared of the crownless casques.