And all the clearer ways he yearned to reach,—
The fugitive ideal, the old unrest,—
Found utterance in song, that slept in speech.
And like a minstrel in an alien land,
Who sings his native strains while men crowd round
And hearken long, but cannot understand,
He sang to us, and through the unknown sound
We caught a passing glimmer of the soul
Those foreign runes concealed, and strove to glean
From out the uninterpretable whole