—     3     — 
 
But of some spark of woven eternity 
Immortal in this bosom.  Phosphor paled 
And in the grey upstarted the dread veiled 
Rose light of dawn.  Sunshapen shone thy spears 
Of love forth darting into myriad spheres, 
Which I the poet called this light, that flower, 
This knowledge, that illumination, power 
This and love that, in vain, in vain, until 
Thy beauty dawned, all beauty to distil 
Into one drop of utmost dew, one name 
Choral as floral, one thin, subtle flame 
Fitted to a shaft of love.  O bear me far 
Up and up yet to where thy sacred star 
Burns in its brilliance !  Thence the storm be shed 
A passion of great calm about this head, 
This head no more a poet’s .  Ay !  the dream 
Of beauty gathered close into a stream 
Of tingling light, and, gathering ever force 
From thine own love, its unextended source, 
Became the magic utterance that makes Me, 
Dissolving self into the starless sea 
That makes one lake of molten joy, one pond 
Steady as light and hard as diamond ; 
One drop, one atom of constraint intense, 
Of elemental passion scorning sense, 
All the concentred music that is I. 
O !  hear me not !  I die ; 
I am borne away in misery of dumb life