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Where There Is No Vision The People Perish.
by Margaret Steele AndersonSpare us, Lord, that last, that dreariest ill!
Thy wrath's grim thunder, and thy lightning-scorn
For our iniquity, that we have worn
Soft as a grace, these, if it be thy will,
But not unsouled darkness! Not the chill
Dead air, in which men move a while forlorn
And swiftly fail! Oh, break us, make us mourn
With tears of blood, but let us see thee still!
For we have visioned thee! Once, long ago,
O'er sea and wilderness a cloud of fire.
Thou led'st us forth; 'mid many a shame and woe.
We still have dreamed apocalypse; at last.
Ah, go not out, thou Flame of all the past!
Burn, thou bright Ardor, burn, thou great Desire!