We sow the glebe, we reap the corn,
We build the house where we may rest,
And then, at moments, suddenly,
We look up to the great wide sky,
Inguiring wherefore we were born...
For earnest, or for jest!
And, in the tumult and excess
Of act and passion under sun,
We sometimes hear - oh, soft and far,
As silver star did touch with star,
The kiss of Peace and Righteousness
Through all things that are done.
God keeps His holy mysteries
Just on the outisde of man's dream.
In diapason slow, we think
To hear their pinions rise and sink,
While they float pure beneath His eyes,
Like swans adown a stream.
Abstractions, are they, from the forms
Of His great beauty! - exaltations
From His great glory! - strong previsions
Of what we shall be! - intuitions
Of what we are - in calms and storms,
Beyond our peace and passions!