Storm had been on the hills. The day had worn
As if a sleep upon the hours had crept;
And the dark clouds that gather’d at the morn
In dull, impenetrable masses slept,
And the wept leaves hung droopingly, and all
Was like the mournful aspect of a pall.
Suddenly on the horizon’s edge, a blue
And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay,
And, as it wider and intenser grew,
The darkness removed silently away,
And, with the splendor of a God, broke through
The perfect glory of departing day–
So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o’er,
Will light upon the dying Christian pour.
(Nathaniel Parker Willis)
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Based on Topics: God Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Sleep Poems, Perfection PoemsBased on Keywords: droopingly