164 MYSTERIES :
Dawn’s finger shall be raised, its wrath shall cease,
The sun shall rouse us whom the tempest lulled,
And thy poor poet’s mind .
For respite by its own deep anguish dulled
Shall wake again to watch the cruel day
Drift slowly on its chill and wasted way
With but thy smile to inspire some sad melodious lay.
From whose rude caverns sweep these gusty wings
That shake the steeples as they mock at God ?
Who reared the stallion wind? Whose foaling flings
The billows starward? Whose the steeds fire-shod
That sweep throughout the world? What spearman
sings
The fearful chant of war
That fires, and spurs, and maddens all the kings
That rule o’er earth, and air, and ocean?
Whose hand excites the star |
To shatter into fiery flakes? No man,.
No petty god, but One who governs all,
Slips the sun’s leash, perceives the sparrow’s fall,
Too high for man to fear, too near for man to call.
O virgin Poesy, the link is thine
To bring us near ; the suffering of thy path
Hath its reward, desire that is divine
Strengthens and gladdens, and thy beauty hath
This joy moreover—It is strong as wine
And sweet as honey is.