Sharing

On the far horizon there     Heaps of cloudy darkness rest;     Though the wind is in the air     There is stupor east and west.     For the sky no change is making,     Scarce we know it from the plain;     Droop its eyelids never waking,     Blinded by the misty rain;     Save on high one little spot,     Round the baffled moon a space     Where the tumult ceaseth not:     Wildly goes the midnight race!     And a joy doth rise in me     Upward gazing on the sight,     When I think that others see     In yon clouds a like delight;     How perchance an aged man     Struggling with the wind and rain,     In the moonlight cold and wan     Feels his heart grow young again;     As the cloudy rack goes by,     How the life-blood mantles up     Till the fountain deep and dry     Yields once more a sparkling cup.     Or upon the gazing child     Cometh down a thought of glory     Which will keep him undefiled     Till his head is old and hoary.     For it may be he hath woke     And hath raised his fair young form;     Strangely on his eyes have broke     All the splendours of the storm;     And his young soul forth doth leap     With the storm-clouds in the moon;     And his heart the light will keep     Though the vision passeth soon.     Thus a joy hath often laughed     On my soul from other skies,     Bearing on its wings a draught     From the wells of Paradise,     For that not to me alone     Comes a splendour out of fear;     Where the light of heaven hath shone     There is glory far and near.