Xvii

Draw from thine eyes the veil that hides Ideal visions; beckonings Of loveliness, whose soul abides Beneath the commonplace of things: No brook within the woodland then But shows its sparkling god to thee; Upon the ancient hills no tree Whose whispering spirit thou shalt not see, Fairer than children born of men. Refine thy flesh that never hears The inner music of all things,-- The deaf flesh,--from thy spirit’s ears, And list the vaster voice that sings With pregnant lips unto the Earth: Mornings, who hymn with gold the sky, To which the eves with gold reply-- The everlasting heavens that cry The visible psalms of death and birth.