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The night hangs cold and dark; not one pale star
Shines forth upon my path to guide my feet;
There is no moon to glimmer from afar,
And lead me on with hope new-born and sweet.
The wild wind moans and whistles thru the trees
Driving the dismal rain in whirling blast.
My hope dies out and no kind Power sees,
That doubts and fears have won the day at last.
But now the morning comes; the Eastern sky
Is all aflame; the fair day dawns anew.
The storm-tossed rose, though lashed by rain awry,
Lifts up its shattered head as if it knew
That God will never let his children fall.
And Heaven-born hope must triumph over all.
by Esther Knox; 1913
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