“But I bethink me, lady.  If thou turn
Thy thoughts upon thyself, for the great sake
Of purity and conscious whiteness’ self,
Thou wilt but half succeed.  The other half
Is to forget the first, and all thyself,
Quenching thy moonlight in the blaze of day;
Turning thy being full unto thy God;
Where shouldst thou quite forget the name of Truth,
Yet thou wouldst be a pure, twice holy child,
(Twice born of God, once of thy own pure will
Arising at the calling Father’s voice,)
Doing the right with sweet unconsciousness;
Having God in thee, a completer soul,
Be sure, than thou alone; thou not the less
Complete in choice, and individual life,
Since that which sayeth I, doth call him Sire.

“Lady, I die—­the Father holds me up. 
It is not much to thee that I should die;
(How should it be? for thou hast never looked
Deep in my eyes, as I once looked in thine)
But it is much that He doth hold me up.

“I thank thee, lady, for a gentle look
Thou lettest fall upon me long ago. 
The same sweet look be possible to thee
For evermore;—­I bless thee with thine own,
And say farewell, and go into my grave—­
Nay, nay, into the blue heaven of my hopes.”

Then came his name in full, and then the name
Of the green churchyard where he hoped to lie. 
And then he laid him back, weary, and said: 
“O God!  I am only an attempt at life. 
Sleep falls again ere I am full awake. 
Life goeth from me in the morning hour. 
I have seen nothing clearly; felt no thrill
Of pure emotion, save in dreams, wild dreams;
And, sometimes, when I looked right up to thee. 
I have been proud of knowledge, when the flame
Of Truth, high Truth, but flickered in my soul. 
Only at times, in lonely midnight hours,
When in my soul the stars came forth, and brought
New heights of silence, quelling all my sea,
Have I beheld clear truth, apart from form,
And known myself a living lonely thought,
Isled in the hyaline of Truth alway. 
I have not reaped earth’s harvest, O my God;
Have gathered but a few poor wayside flowers,
Harebells, red poppies, closing pimpernels—­
All which thou hast invented, beautiful God,
To gather by the way, for comforting. 
Have I aimed proudly, therefore aimed too low,
Striving for something visible in my thought,
And not the unseen thing hid far in thine? 
Make me content to be a primrose-flower
Among thy nations; that the fair truth, hid
In the sweet primrose, enter into me,
And I rejoice, an individual soul,
Reflecting thee; as truly then divine,
As if I towered the angel of the sun. 
All in the night, the glowing worm hath given
Me keener joy than a whole heaven of stars: 
Thou camest in the worm more near me then. 
Nor do I think, were I that green delight,
I’d change to be the shadowy evening star.