To * * *.

WE are centred deeper far
Than the eye of any star;
Nor can rays of long sunlight
Thread a pace of our delight.
In thy form, I see the day
Burning of a kingdom higher;
In thy silver network play
Thoughts that to the Gods aspire;
In thy cheek I see the flame
Of the studious taper burn;
And thy Grecian eye might tame
Natures ashed in antique um.
Yet with this lofty element
Flows a stream of gentle kindness,
And thou to life thy strength hast lent,
And borne profoundest tenderness
In thy Promethean sinewy arm,
With mercy’s love that would all angels charm.
So trembling meek, so proudly strong,
Thou dost to higher worlds belong
Than where I sing this empty song.
Yet I, a thing of mortal kind,
Can kneel before thy pathless mind,
And see in thee what my mates say
Sank o’er Judea’s hills one crimson day.
Yet flames on high the keen Greek fire,
And later ages rarefies,
And even on my tuneless lyre
A faint wan beam of radiance dies.
And might I say what I have thought
Of thee and those I love to-day,
Then had the world an echo caught
Of that intense impassioned lay
Which sung in those thy being sings,
And from the deepest ages rings.