Here are the beginning and end of another of similar purport: 

  CHILDHOOD.

  I cannot reach it; and my striving eye
  Dazzles at it, as at eternity. 
  Were now that chronicle alive,
  Those white designs which children drive,
  And the thoughts of each harmless hour,
  With their content too in my power,
  Quickly would I make my path even,
  And by mere playing go to heaven.

* * * * *

  An age of mysteries! which he
  Must live twice that would God’s face see;
  Which angels guard, and with it play—­
  Angels which foul men drive away.

  How do I study now, and scan
  Thee more than e’er I studied man,
  And only see, through a long night,
  Thy edges and thy bordering light! 
  O for thy centre and mid-day! 
  For sure that is the narrow way!

Many a true thought comes out by the help of a fancy or half-playful exercise of the thinking power.  There is a good deal of such fancy in the following poem, but in the end it rises to the height of the purest and best mysticism.  We must not forget that the deepest man can utter, will be but the type or symbol of a something deeper yet, of which he can perceive only a doubtful glimmer.  This will serve for general remark upon the mystical mode, as well as for comment explanatory of the close of the poem.

  THE NIGHT.

  JOHN iii. 2.

      Through that pure virgin-shrine,
  That sacred veil[145] drawn o’er thy glorious noon,
  That men might look and live, as glowworms shine,
          And face the moon,
      Wise Nicodemus saw such light
      As made him know his God by night.

      Most blest believer he,
  Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes,
  Thy long-expected healing wings could see
          When thou didst rise! 
      And, what can never more be done,
      Did at midnight speak with the sun!

      O who will tell me where
  He found thee at that dead and silent hour? 
  What hallowed solitary ground did bear
          So rare a flower,
  Within whose sacred leaves did lie
  The fulness of the Deity?

      No mercy-seat of gold,
  No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone,
  But his own living works did my Lord hold
          And lodge alone,
      Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
      And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.

      Dear night! this world’s defeat;
  The stop to busy fools; care’s check and curb,
  The day of spirits; my soul’s calm retreat
          Which none disturb! 
      Christ’s progress, and his prayer time,[146]
      The hours to which high heaven doth chime![147]

    God’s silent, searching flight;[148]
  When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and all
  His locks are wet with the clear drops of night,
      His still, soft call;
    His knocking time;[149] the soul’s dumb watch,
    When spirits their fair kindred catch.