Thompson, Priscilla Jane
|GLEANINGS OF QUIET HOURS.|
|SONG OF THE MOON.|
OH, a hidden power is in my breast,
A power that none can fathom;
I call the tides from seas of rest,
They rise, they fall, at my behest;
And many a tardy fisher's boat,
I've torn apart and set afloat,
From out their raging chasm,
For I'm an enchantress, old and grave;
Concealed I rule the weather;
Oft set I, the lover's heart a-blaze'
With hidden power of my fulgent rays,
Or seek I the souls of dying men,
And call the sea-tides from the fen,
And drift them out together.
I call the rain from the mountain's peak,
And sound the mighty thunder;
When I wax and wane from week to week,
The heavens stir, while vain men seek,
To solve the myst'ries that I hold,
But a bounded portion I unfold,
So nations pass and wonder.
Yea, my hidden strength no man may know;
Nor myst'ries be expounded;
I'll cause the tidal waves to flow,
And I shall wane, and larger grow,
Yet while man rack his shallow brain,
The secrets with me still remain,
He seeks in vain, confounded.