The Blessed New

When breaks this siege so fierce and strong that knows not length of day, now long; a constant press this tyrant be, when comes the blessed new? An endless bearing on and on— no hiding place, no hopeful song or rest, it seems but then instead: the storm, unceasing, roars again. The moments drag as fury blooms— each one a vast and troubled room, that wears away the me I was before this nightmare come. But minutes...more, are lost and then an hour gone (though time's no friend, as hellish fight still steady be, yet still, I hold my ground). Then 'midst the grey the faintest glow, as dawn begins her splendor'd show and swelling heart where fear had been doth fill my chest with hope again. Shaped now by strife, and sweat, and tide— the thieves of loftiness and pride have done their duty (sore it be) that I might better, stronger, be. So blow ye winds, come storm of storms and wrest the weakness from this form that from it rise a creature hewn to ever face life’s frightful blooms. 'Till final call, a melody— above the storm is heard, so sweet: 'tis time to rest now, finally. Then come, the blessed new.