Or on the hillside, always unforwarned. 
A grace of being, finer than himself,
That beckons and is gone,—­a larger life
Upon his own impinging, with swift glimpse
Of spacious circles luminous with mind,
To which the ethereal substance of his own
Seems but gross cloud to make that visible,
Touched to a sudden glory round the edge, 450
Who that hath known these visitations fleet
Would strive to make them trite and ritual? 
I, that still pray at morning and at eve,
Loving those roots that feed us from the past,
And prizing more than Plato things I learned
At that best academe, a mother’s knee,
Thrice in my life perhaps have truly prayed,
Thrice, stirred below my conscious self, have felt
That perfect disenthralment which is God;
Nor know I which to hold worst enemy, 460
Him who on speculation’s windy waste
Would turn me loose, stript of the raiment warm
By Faith contrived against our nakedness,
Or him who, cruel-kind, would fain obscure,
With painted saints and paraphrase of God,
The soul’s east-window of divine surprise,
Where others worship I but look and long;
For, though not recreant to my fathers’ faith,
Its forms to me are weariness, and most
That drony vacuum of compulsory prayer, 470
Still pumping phrases for the Ineffable,
Though all the valves of memory gasp and wheeze. 
Words that have drawn transcendent meanings up
From the best passion of all bygone time,
Steeped through with tears of triumph and remorse,
Sweet with all sainthood, cleansed in martyr-fires,
Can they, so consecrate and so inspired,
By repetition wane to vexing wind? 
Alas! we cannot draw habitual breath
In the thin air of life’s supremer heights, 480
We cannot make each meal a sacrament,
Nor with our tailors be disbodied souls,—­
We men, too conscious of earth’s comedy,
Who see two sides, with our posed selves debate,
And only for great stakes can be sublime! 
Let us be thankful when, as I do here,
We can read Bethel on a pile of stones,
And, seeing where God has been, trust in Him.

Brave Peter Fischer there in Nuremberg,
Moulding Saint Sebald’s miracles in bronze, 490
Put saint and stander-by in that quaint garb
Familiar to him in his daily walk,
Not doubting God could grant a miracle
Then and in Nuremberg, if so He would;
But never artist for three hundred years
Hath dared the contradiction ludicrous
Of supernatural in modern clothes. 
Perhaps the deeper faith that is to come
Will see God rather in the strenuous doubt,
Than in the creed held as an infant’s hand 500
Holds purposeless whatso is placed therein.