Made in His Image

Between the archangels and the old eclipse Of glory on perfect glory, does He feel A vision, thin as frost at midnight, steal And lay a nameless shadow on His lips? Does He, Who gave the power, endure the pain?— Look down the hollow'd universe, and see His works, His worlds, choiring Him endlessly,— His worlds, His works, all made, and made in vain? Then does He bid all heaven beneath His hand, In blossom of worship, flame on flame of praise, And taste their thunders, and grow sick, and gaze At some gray silence that He had not planned, And shiver among His stars, and nurse each spark That wards Him from the uncreated dark?