Thine was the passionless divine 
High hope, and the pure purpose thine, 
Higher and purer than stars shine, 
 
And thine the unexpressed delight 
To hold high commune with the wind 
That sings, in midnight black and blind, 
Strange chants, the murmurs of the mind, 
To grasp the hands of heaven and find the lords of 
 
light. 
 
Mine was the holy fire that drew 
Its perfect passion from the dew, 
And all the flowers that blushed and blew 
 
On sunny slopes by little brooks. 
Mine the desire that brushed aside 
The thorns, and would not be denied, 
And sought, more eager than a bride, 
The cold grey secrets wan and wide of sacred books. 
 
Thine was the hand that guided me 
By moor and mountain, vale and lea, 
And led me to the sudden sea 
 
That lies superb, remote, and deep, 
 
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