Xxviii

The storm,--that makes the sky its own, And smites its spirit through Earth’s nerves, And, like an instrument which serves High purposes to us unknown Of song that knows not that it sings,-- Itself is all majestic things Imagination forms or feels; Itself all wonders it reveals To thought, which knows but semblances Of such concealed realities.

The star, that flames through storm and crowds An instant with its utterance Of silence and serene romance, And glides again into the clouds, Shone for some present end; and filled A moment’s need as Heaven willed:-- A thought, some dreamer labored for, Immaculate as is a star; A hope, some weary watcher read Pale in the loved face of his dead.