s on a hill-top near the sun
The stars are unseen, every one,
While from its base within the valley
Their festal pomp is e'en now begun;
So lowly lives 'mid shadows passed
Have higher skies above them massed,
See galaxies and constellations—
The many mansions o'er them englassed.
Encamped am I; earth's not my home.
The glory flashing 'neath yon dome,
Refusing to be leashed, like music,
Supernal is, and it beckons, Come!
unshine, O soul, is not a mood—
Open the life unto the good.
The great sun globes itself at morning
In dewy lawns, but 'tis dark in wood.
Up, up, and purge thy spirit's sight.
See wheeling wings, superb in flight,
Of golden eagle's aspiration!
E'en thus aspire to the Central Light.
In loom divine the clouds are wove,
And shot with hues of irised dove,
The blinding shafts of light to temper
With airy curtains of Love's own love.