All’s Well.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

THE clouds, which rise with thunder, slake

Our thirsty souls with rain;

The blow most dreaded falls to break

From off our limbs a chain;

And wrongs of man to man but make

The love of God more plain.

As through the shadowy lens of even

The eye looks farthest into heaven

On gleams of star and depths of blue

The glaring sunshine never knew!.

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