Beneath the glamour of the day,
So on the last remotest verge,
Half-lost against the murmuring surge,
’Midst hollow Ocean-voices heard,
Steals floating in that mystic word,
The word mistaught, misunderstood
Whose half is “Ill,” whose whole is “Good.”
The word whose magic stirs the seeds,
And knits the stars, and links the creeds:
A whisper, solemn, soft and low,