A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart—
That sat it down to rest—
Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day
Flowed silver to the West—
Nor noticed Night did soft descend—
Nor Constellation burn—
Intent upon the vision
Of latitudes unknown.
The angels—happening that way
This dusty heart espied—
Tenderly took it up from toil
And carried it to God—
There—sandals for the Barefoot—
There—gathered from the gales—
Do the blue havens by the hand
Lead the wandering Sails.
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Comments1I REMEMBER READING THIS POEM WHEN I WAS YOUNGER! SUCH BEAUTIFUL IMAGERY IN "THE EBBING DAY FLOWED SILVER TO THE WEST." IT REALLY CAPTURES THE FEELING OF A BROKEN HEART FINDING PEACE AND GUIDANCE.