 | Songs of A Wayfarer |  |
CLXVI. TO TRUTH
Not Love's respect nor Beauty's monumentCan match the assured glory of the time
When I have sat sole arbiter, sublime,
Above the sable years' sad discontent,
Wrapt in the sphere of thy large argument;
Nor holds the fine surprise of poet's rhyme,
Nor green sufficiencies of summer prime,
Such teeming treasure of outpoured content:
For I have proved, beyond the world's demerit,
A stablished dwelling wherein find a home
The broodings of the vast Eternal Spirit,
Melting the limits of this mortal doom;
Rich hours whose contemplative moods inherit
Prophetic joy, a weight of peace to come.
| Songs of A Wayfarer | |