Athwart my soul the shadows stream;
The weird winds boisterously blow,
And drift the melancholy snow.
Expect the storm, with tender care
He rends the clouds and through the blue
The glorious sun breaks forth anew.
So with the wan waste grasses on my spear,
I ride forever seeking after God.
My hair grows whiter than my thistle plume
And all my limbs are loose; but in my eyes
The star of an unconquerable praise;
For in my soul one hope forever sings,
That at the next white corner of the road
My eyes may look on Him.