In the Morning by Willis Boyd Allen - HTML preview

NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND.

A poet sat in his oaken chair,

The pen in his eager hand,

Awaiting the voice that should declare

His Lord’s divine command.

The sad winds sobbed against the pane,

The tempest’s tramp he heard

As it scourged the night with a hissing rain—

But the Poet wrote never a word.

Then came a burst of martial mirth,

And mighty cannon roared

Till they shook the beams of the steadfast earth—

’Twas not the voice of the Lord.

In the Poet’s heart a memory rose

Of love’s first passionate thrill

That, kindling, grows as the red fire glows—

But the pen was idle, still;

When lo, a timid voice at the door,

And a child, with sweet delight,

Called “Father!” and “Father!” over and o’er—

The poem was written that night.