Beneath whose touch ye started into being
And grew to light and beauty, covering
Your storied frescoes with the lines of grace,
Harmonious hues and features of the sky.
And yonder is your birthplace, yon light skull—
The slight and delicate shrine of all that mind!
’Tis a strange thought how vast a world resolved
In thy small compass! Senseless as thou art,
Who could behold thee as a mouldering bone,
The mere dust of unsphered humanity?