Provision

3 0 00

Provision

Above my head the great pine-branches tower;

Backwards and forwards each to the other bends,

Beckoning the tempest-cloud which hither wends

Like a slow-laboured thought, heavy with power:

Hark to the patter of the coming shower!

Let me be silent while the Almighty sends

His thunder-word along⁠—but when it ends

I will arise and fashion from the hour

Words of stupendous import, fit to guard

High thoughts and purposes, which I may wave,

When the temptation cometh close and hard,

Like fiery brands betwixt me and the grave

Of meaner things⁠—to which I am a slave,

If evermore I keep not watch and ward.