God send to-morrow a day of mist,
Grey cloud slim and still as a crane,
Darkening shadow of amethyst
And the little silver rain.
Send the grey winds flying like doves
From the hollows under the hillside breast,
Loose on high the light that she loves,
Ragged silver along the west.
Call the blue winds home from the deep,
Home from the harbour of floating ships;
They will bring dreams to the heart asleep
And a quiver back to her lips.
Here on the hills, her white youth dwells,
Here by the gorse her soul keeps tryst;
Speaks with a voice of far-heard bells
Faint and low through the mist.
Seal the words she shall give you, Lord,
Save in the casket of spacious skies.
Stanch with dews the wound of the sword,
Heal with a star her eyes.
Let Thine earth forgive her at length
That she forgot . . . that she grew old . . .
And the dark hill offer her all its strength,
And the wet gorse all its gold.