(Isa. 27:8.)
The zephyrs blow in childhood—
Those breezes, balmy sweet,
And stir the wild, pink rosebuds
That grow beside the street.
But, ah, the years are onward,
And East winds quickly rise,
And blight our cherished blossoms
While tear-drops fill our eyes.
And then all sobbing, moaning,
The rough winds with their blast
Sweep from our lives the chaff-dust
And leave that which will last.
God lets the wheat be sifted
E'en tho the wind be rough,
And when the chaff is scattered
He cries, "Be still, enough."
But East and rough winds never
Combine in fury wild,
For God has pity always
And loves the erring child.
O God of wind and tempest,
My character make pure;
And teach me, Lord, with patience
All chastening to endure.
Eliza H. Morton.