Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
Waiting for the MorningJohn Henry Newman (18011890)
T
We may not stir the heaven of their repose
With loud-voiced grief or passionate request,
Or selfish plaint for those
Who in the mountain grots in Eden lie,
And hear the four-fold river, as it hurries by.
In distance down the dark and savage vale;
But they at eddying pool or current deep
Shall never more grow pale;
They hear, and meekly muse, as fain to know
How long untired, unspent, that giant stream shall flow.
Blend with the neighbouring waters as they glide;
Posted along the haunted garden’s bounds
Angelic forms abide,
Echoing, as words of watch, o’er lawn and grove,
The verses of that hymn which Seraphs chant above.