To Thee all things create and unborn yield,
  Being of Thee, the secret of their souls—­
The traversed elements, the azure field
  Whereo’er eternal each huge star-world rolls. 
There is no tiny insect but does know
  Itself within Thy Presence visual: 
From us too swiftly years and seasons go,
  To Thee all change is a thing gradual.

E’en as at nightfall, when the lights come in,
  The moth attracted woos and meets her death,
So do I seek Thy light to wander in,
  Though fearfully and with half-bated breath. 
So do I seek all knowledge of Thy stars,
  Which move in and without my vision’s reach;
Maybe yet burning with internal wars,
  Or shaking as this world with human speech.

Stars which perhaps ten thousand years ago
  Waned and grew cold at Thy almighty word
Waft their light hitherward.  I do not know—­
  Thy recreating voice I have not heard. 
Maybe, e’en at this hour Thine accents shake
  Some chaos into order, into life;
Perchance some great creation now doth break
  Into new form beneath Thy wisdom’s knife.

Ah, Lord!  The night appals me.  Give me strength
  Within myself to search this planet’s dome: 
O Supreme Architect, give me at length
  Some clearer knowledge of Thy spaceless home! 
My spirit seethes within me; in the sky
  Thy constellations shine; for me begin
My labours until night-time passes by—­
  And before dawn I must or fail or win.

THE MOON

Cirqued with dim stars and delicate moonflowers,
Silent she moves among the silent hours—­
Watching the spheres that glow with golden heat
              Under her feet.

Then, when the sunrise tints the east with light,
She fades to westward, with the dreamy night
And all her starry train—­in faint disguise
              Of twilight skies.

TO YVONNE

Such things have been, Yvonne; but you and I,
  Can we touch lips again across the years? 
Re-order what is past?  Forget—­or try
  Not to remember what through mists of tears
Is still too memorable?  Dare we two
  Start both our lives again, as we were young
And happy, in such love as falls to few? 
  Nay, for our violins are all unstrung.

Yet it is well that memory should hold
  Some few pale rose-leaves plucked in bygone days,
That still are sweet, despite those pains untold
  Which throng the marges of life’s winding ways. 
Yea, these will stay when nearer things are gone;
  I shall keep mine.  Will you keep yours, Yvonne?

THE BURIAL OF SCALD

A long, low wail of harps across the snow,
  Falling and rising with the whistling wind;
A shifting glare of lights that come and go,
  As if men searched for what they could not find. 
And then the music thrilled out loud and well
  Over the waste and barren dunes of sand—­
Solemn and stately as a passing bell
  Heard dimly in some weary twilight land.