More gorgeous they than Oriental throng—
What altar-pomps, and rough with beaten ores!
These great events, once fluid as a song,
Now gates uplift, e'en His authentic doors!
(His stay no tent is for-a-night along
The murmuring floods and boisterous battle-roars.)
The wedge of frost, and beetle wave, sand blast,
With stroke of pencil-sun, and wash of rain,
Outline unsearchable and shadow vast!
And evermore, as moons grow or decline,