—All blotted out by one small poplar leaf
In the light wind of languid summer stirred!
Brother, what news out of the night, what word
From the frontiers of mind beyond our ken,
Of mysteries unimagined yet of men,
Compassed by travail of your spirit? O
Could you but reach to us! Could we but know
Across the imperturbable old Dark
Some answering glimmer of the ancient Spark
Lifted—some token, tangible to sense,