Deep in the brooding shadow of thy wing,
Hidden and hushed and harbored here,
My soul for very stillness cannot sing;
A word would rend the silence, and a tear
Of joy affront the sense of cool and dark and rest.
Unto the music of thine endless calm
Sing thou then for me! Thy glad child
Sheltered and saved, wrapped all about from harm,
Happy to be helpless,-and thy child;
Can only turn and sleep within the blessed rest,
Can only drop the gifts which thou hast given
Back in thy lavish hand. O wealth
Of fulness! that for life, for love, for Heaven,
For thyself, thou shouldst thank thyself
In me; and leave me mute and motionless,-at rest.
