Iii

I seek thee, and thou art not; for the sky Has drawn thee in upon her breast to be A hidden talisman, while light soars high,

Virtuous to make wide heaven’s tranquillity More tranquil, and her steadfast truth more true, Yea even her overbowed infinity.

Of tenderness, when o’er wet woods the blue Shows past white edges of a sundering cloud, More infinitely tender. Day is new,

Night ended; how the hills are overflowed With spaciousness of splendour, and each tree Is touched; only not yet the lark is loud,

Since viewless still o’er city and plain and sea Vibrates thy spirit-wingèd ecstasy.