Of love, of sorrow, faith without a creed,
Of doubt, of hope, of longing,—or indeed
Of any pain or joy the poet knew
A heart could feel,—think not to find a clue
To his own heart—its gladness or its need.
From a deep spring with tangled weeds o’ergrown
The poet parts the leaves; if they who pass,
Bending to look down through the tall wild grass,
By winds of heaven faintly overblown,
Should start to see there, dimly in a glass,