Stella viatoris
A. Beach
Dun grows the sky;
The cloudrack dark
In the west hangs low.
The wind moans by;
The bare trees ply their futile weaving
Sad and slow;
But o'er the east
The grim clouds part
A fleece of white,
A space of blue
Aloft, afar,
There's a single star,
Like the kindness of God
Shining thro'.