In the wide crucibles of steady Time.
Withal, tho’ such I seem to be,
Yet am I not at all: the voiceless clod
Owns substance more than I. Spaceless, sublime,
I am the Breath Divine; the Voice of God;
His concentrate Radiation: thence wend I,
Thither to trend again, dependently;
Aerial, effulgent, winging the formless deeps.
Ecstatic Wisdom called they me awhile
Who touched my billowy robes. Yet, tho’ I ply