In old religions hadst thou place: 
  Long, long, O Vision, our pursuit! 
Yea, monad, fish and childlike brute
  Through countless ages dreamt thy grace.

Grey nations felt thee o’er them tower;
  Some clothed thee in fantastic dress;
Some thought thee as the unknown Power,
  I, e’er the unknown Loveliness.

To all, thou wert as harps of joy;
  To bard and sage their fulgent sun: 
To priests their mystic life’s employ;
  But unto me the Lovely One.

Veils clothed thy might; veils draped thy charm;
  The might they tracked, but I the grace;
They learnt all forces were thine Arm,
  I that all beauty was thy Face.

Night spares us little.  Wanderers we. 
  Our rapt delights, our wisdoms rare
But shape our darknesses of thee,—­
  We know thee not, thou Spirit fair!

Would that thine awful Peerlessness
  An hour could shine o’er heaven and earth
And I the maddening power possess
  To drink the cup,—­O Godlike birth!

All life impels me to thy search: 
  Without thee, yea, to live were null;
Still shall I make the dawn thy Church,
  And pray thee “God the Beautiful.”

THE WIND-CHANT.

The Soul, the inner, immortal Ruler.—­Hindu Upanishad.

“Witch-like, see it planets roll,
  Hear it from the cradle call—­
Nature?—­Nature is the soul;
  That alone is aught and all. 
Grieved or broken though the song,
  The fount of music is elate,
For the Soul is ever strong,
  For the Soul is ever great.”

“For the Soul is ever great!”—­
  Songless sat I by a grove,
Pines, like funeral priests of state,
  Chanted solemn rites above. 
Dark and glassy far below,
  The River in his proud vale slept,
Eve with olive-shafted bow
  Like a stealthy archer crept.

Why, O Masters, then I thought,
  Is the mantle yours, of song? 
Why with hours like this do not
  Glorious strains to all belong?

Why all choosing, why all ban? 
  Why are lords, and why are slaves
And the most of gentle man
  Clipt and harried to their graves? 
Foiled and ruined, masses die
  That one fair and noble be. 
Why are all not Masters?  Why
  So unjust is Life’s decree?

Why are poor and why are rich? 
  Why are slaves and why are lords? 
Unto this the splendid niche: 
  Those caste damneth in their words. 
Do not powers of evil reign? 
  Do not flashes’ storms make dread? 
Should not He of Life again
  Bring the just peace of the dead?

Oft the Pines, like priests of state,
  Have spoke the heavenly word to man;
So above me as I sate
  AEol voices chanting ran: 
“For the Soul is ever great
  For the Soul is ever strong;
In the murmurer it can wait—­
  In the shortest sight see long.