Of that divinest splendor, till they shine,
With countenance aglow, like him of old,—
Prophet and priest and warrior, all in one.
But every human path leads on to God;
He holds a myriad finer threads than gold,
And strong as holy wishes, drawing us
With delicate tension upward to Himself.
You see the strand that reaches down to you;
Haply I see mine own, and make essay
To trace its glimmerings—up the shadowy hills