I sat by night and read the Book,
Till doubt was mingled with my look,
And dimness lay before my eyes,
As mists in hollows form and rise.
'So dark, so very dark,' I said,
And shut the Book and bow'd my head;
Then lo! I felt a wondrous light
Behind me, making all things bright;
While a clear voice, like some refrain,
Said—'Ope the Book, and read again.'
I open'd up its leaves, and lo!
Each page was living with the glow
Of some great Presence undefin'd,
Yet standing in its place behind.
Methought that as I read the Word
Each leaf turn'd of its own accord,
And all the meaning fair and clear,
As pebbles through the stream appear,
Lay to my eyes, that saw beneath
Each sentence lie without its sheath.
I raised my head, and spoke in fear—
'This is God's Book, and very clear.'
Then, lo! the light behind me fled,
But left a clear, sweet voice that said—
'Read thou not like to him who sees
Evolving mists of mysteries,
But like to him whose heart perceives
God's finger turning o'er the leaves!'