THE SOUL'S SPHERE

Come prisoned moon in steep cloud-fastnesses,—

Throned queen and thralled; some dying sun whose pyre

Blazed with momentous memorable fire;—

Who hath not yearned and fed his heart with these?

Who, sleepless, hath not anguished to appease

Tragical shadow's realm of sound and sight

Conjectured in the lamentable night?...

Lo! the soul's sphere of infinite images!

What sense shall count them? Whether it forecast

The rose-winged hours that flutter in the van

Of Love's unquestioning unreveale'd span,—

Visions of golden futures: or that last

Wild pageant of the accumulated past

That clangs and flashes for a drowning man.