Filled oft with portents, oft withdrawn...

Filled oft with portents, oft withdrawn,

My inward skies, from earliest dawn

To this full hour, have borne their witness

Of one who out of the darkness shone.

The soul is dowered with awful things,

Mystic as sound of unseen wings,—

The sense of God, of Law, of Duty,

Of Life, and Destiny. Signet rings

Flash on these fingers of one hand —

The Hand of God! The mean, the grand,

Tremble beneath the fearsome covert

Till lurid sky with the Rainbow's spanned.