The thorn must bear its sorrow’s weight,
The tree stand stark and bare,
The mountain taste defeat, the vale
Grieve in the grieving air.
The grass must take on nakedness,
The heart of man its woe;
But thro’ the soul the trumpeters
And straining banners go.
And Hope, the minstrel, rides before
And sings, as throstles sing,
Of seeds that sleep and beauty that
Abides her blossoming;
Of splendour that no flood shall down
Nor fire assail, nor war;
Of faithful rainbows and the sure
Bright promise of a Star.
