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| SPIRIT of song, whose shining wings have borne | |
| Our souls of old to many a clear blue height, | |
| Comes there the day that leaves our world forlorn | |
| Of thy clear singing in the haunted night? | |
| For while from out the western radiance low | 5 |
| Like stars the great dead shining upward go, | |
| Behold, thy wings are poised to join their flight: | |
| Yet follow not within the golden door | |
| Those starry souls; but when the time is full, | |
| Let thy fair-shining garments, white as wool, | 10 |
| Glimmer once more across our earth’s green floor. | |
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| Well was it for thee when the moonlight filled | |
| The Syrian nights, and all the air was stilled | |
| With large and simple faith, until men felt | |
| Somewhat most stern and mighty brooding o’er them, | 15 |
| And grimly as Jehovah’s warriors bore them. | |
| Well was it for thee where the glad gods dwelt | |
| In happy Hellas, clasped by silver nights, | |
| When on the clear blue of Olympian heights | |
| Apollo’s lyre, and by the reedy stream | 20 |
| Pan’s shrill, sweet pipe made life a sunny dream. | |
| Well was it for thee in the English wood, | |
| When red, new leaves were bursting out of bud, | |
| And hearts were fresh as young leaves on the elm. | |
| And well, through all the centuries since, thy realm | 25 |
| Has loyally been kept for thee, and thou, | |
| Departing oft, hast still returned; but now | |
| New powers devour thy kingdom day by day. | |
| How shouldst thou come amidst such waste to stay? | |
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| For even now, across that western glow, | 30 |
| A keen light whitens coldly in the east, | |
| And glittering on the slopes of morning, lo, | |
| One comes in silver arms; and aye increased | |
| The sharp light shines, and men beholding turn | |
| From thee, and kneel before this wonder new, | 35 |
| Upon whose crest the conquered stars do burn. | |
| No white wings gleam like thine against the blue, | |
| Yet swift his foot and strong; and in his hand— | |
| Ah, bright and terrible!—he bears the brand | |
| Of truth, and in its gleam the lightning plays. | 40 |
| Exultant, young, full-armed from spur to helm, | |
| Spirit of song, he comes to claim thy realm; | |
| And coldly o’er thy lingering radiance low | |
| The keener splendors that attend him flow. | |
| What place is left for thee in all earth’s ways? | 45 |
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| Yet that strong warrior that recks not of thee | |
| Shall one day turn his eyes and see thy face | |
| Shine like a star from some far deep of space,— | |
| And all his spirit unto thee shall yearn, | |
| Until he call thee back, and win thy grace. | 50 |
| And on thy brow his captive stars shall burn; | |
| And in wide realms, new-conquered unto thee | |
| By that great sword, thine olden smile shall shine; | |
| Unto deep chords of many an unknown sea, | |
| Thy voice shall join its world-old notes divine. | 55 |
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