But the hour is hard at hand
When Time's gray wing shall winnow all away
The atoms of the earth, the stars of Heaven;
When the created and Creator mind
Shall know each other, worlds and bodies both
Put off for ever."
He says finely,—
"We never see the stars
Till we can see naught but them. So with truth."
Of a young poet,—
"He wrote amid the ruins of his heart,
They were his throne and theme; like some lone king
Who tells the story of the land he lost,
And how he lost it.
... It is no task for suns
To shine. He knew himself a bard ordained."
These two following quotations may be also put very well together, though taken from different parts of the poem,—
"It is fine
To stand upon some lofty mountain-thought,
And feel the spirit stretch into the view:
To joy in what might be, if will and power,
For good, would work together.
But while we wish, the world turns round
And peeps us in the face—the wanton world,
We feel it gently pressing down our arm—
The arm we had raised to do for truth such wonders;
We feel it softly bearing on our side—
We feel it touch and thrill us through the body—
And we are fools, and there's an end of us."
The following are some of the expressions of the mingled tide of passion, and of thought as it flows through the troubled bosom of his hero,—