The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake
Our thirsty souls with rain:
The blow most dreaded falls to break
From off our limbs a chain;
And wrongs of man to man but make
The love of God more plain:
As through the shadowy lens of even
The eye looks farthest into heaven.
On gleams of star and depths of blue
The glaring sunshine never knew!
WHITTIER.
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