Like one great garden show’d,
And thro’ the wreaths of floating dark upcurl’d
Rare sunrise flow’d.
Tennyson.
Dark, dark, yea, irrecoverably dark,
Is the soul’s eye; yet how it strives and battles
Through the impenetrable gloom to fix
That master light, the secret truth of things,
Which is the body of the infinite God.
Arthur H. Hallam.