The World is a wind—on which are blown
All mysteries that are.
Out of a Void it sprang—and to
A Void shall spring, afar.
Vox sperans.
The World is Visible God—who is
Its Soul invisible.
There is no Void beyond that He
Abiding fills not full.
[TO THE DOVE]
1
Thy mellow passioning amid the leaves
Trembles around me in the summer dusk
That falls along the oatlands' sallow sheaves
And haunts above the runnel's voice a-husk
With plashy willow and bold-wading reed.
The solitude's dim spell it breaketh not,
But softer mourns unto me from the mead
Than airs within the dead primrose's heart,
Or breath of silences in dells begot
To soothe some grief-wan maid with love a-mort.
2
On many sylvan eves of childhood thou
Didst woo my homeward path with tenderness,
Woo till the awing owlet ceased to cow
With his chill screech of quavering distress.
At phantom midnight wakened I have heard
Thy mated dreams from the wind-eerie elm,
And as a potion medicined and myrrhed,
As an enchantment's runic utterance,
It would draw sleep back to her lulling realm
Over my lids till day should disentrance.