Their heartfelt praise are singing.
Through mists that, like a shroud around,
In densest folds the soul had bound,
My life has known a song to sound,
Nerve dying hope by ringing
As clear as tolls a lighthouse bell
Where ghost-like rush the breakers fell—
The soul they would have borne to hell
Was warn’d from it by singing.
A shadeless waste, a mist-hid sea,