Turning on me that sweetly subtile look,
Erasmus, in his breast an Attic book:
Peacemakers all, their dreams to ashes fell.
Naught steadfast may I image nor attain
Save steadfast labour; futile must I grope
After my god, like him, inconstant bright.
But sun and shade must unto you remain
Alternately a symbol and a hope,
Men, spirits! of Emmanuel your Light.