We feel but the pulse of that viewless hand
Which ever has been and still shall be,
In the stellar orb and the grain of sand,
Through nature’s endless paternity.
The smile which plays in the maiden’s glance,
Or stirs in the beat of an insect’s wing,
Is of kin with the north light’s spectral dance,
Or the dazzling zone of the planet’s ring.
From our lonely tower aloft in air,
With the breezes around us, tranquil and free,