The storm approaches, the tree tops bend,
The storm that gathered from days most fair
Against my trembling windows will tear,
A muffled murmuring fills the air
Of things that alone I cannot bear,
That I cannot love without a friend.
The storm, the great transformer will rage,
Sweeping through forests and on through time,
Levelling landmarks, anchored by age,
Till the landscape like the Psalter’s page
Opens out luminous and sublime.
How small is the thing against which we fight,
That which battles with us—how great its might;
If we by inanimate things were taught,
If the storm a change within us wrought,
We would mightily merge with the Infinite.
That which we conquer is slight and small.
Small we remain when with victory crowned;
The wonder for us will not befall,
The eternal by us will not be bound.
These two are the Angel the wrestler fought,—
It is written in the old Prophecies,—
Who felt his foe’s sinews under his hands
Stretching and straining like metal bands,
Beneath his compelling grasp grow taut
And vibrant like chords of deep melodies.
He whom the Angel vanquished that day,
The Angel who oft the fight did reject,
Came forth from the struggle great and erect,
The hard hand that moulded him like clay
While shaping, caressed him silently.
Triumph no more spreads beckoning wings.
His growth is: Profoundly conquered to be
By ever greater things.
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