VI.
A blighted name! I hear the winds of morn—
Their sounds are not of this! I hear the shiver
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne
From the high forest, when the light leaves quiver
Their sounds are not of this!—the cedars, waving,
Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving,
It is not murmur’d by the joyous river!
What part hath mortal name, where God alone
Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known?