I contemplate myself in that dim sphere 
Whose hollow centre I am standing at 
With burning eyes intent to penetrate 
The black circumference, and find out God— 
And only see myself.  The walls of Space 
Mock me with silence.  What is Life ?  The stars 
Are silent.  O ye matchless ministers 
That daily pass in your appointed ways 
To reach—we know not what !  How meaningless 
Your bright assemblage and your steady task 
Of doubtful motion.  And the soul of man 
Grapples in death-pangs with your mystery, 
And fails to wrestle down the hard embrace 
That grips the thighs of thought.  And so he dies 
To pass beyond ye—whither ?  To find God ? 
All my life long I have gazed, and dreamed, and 
thought, 
Unless my thought itself were but a dream, 
A little, troubled dream, a dream of death 
Whence I may wake—ah, where ?  In some new 
world 
Where Consciousness doth touch the Infinite, 
And all the strivings of the soul be found 
 
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