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108

THE EXTREME SENSE

Man treads a path with signs and lights ablaze,
Yet scarce conceives of sacrament or sign;
And hence, ill-starr'd, his genius strays,
Midst things that seem, not are, content
To shine.
When Nature's mystic life at first unfolds,
False sacraments he makes, of veils unclean;
The open'd eye but part beholds,
Misreads inverted types and tales
Between.
And at the best we catch some hints alone,
The cypher characters in part translate
And then, our powers at fault compell'd to own,
More insight with dejected heart
Await.
Man can but place, in his most lofty dreams,
Constructions on the signs which best accord
With signifying Nature's schemes
And broader gifts to life repress'd
Afford.
Nor saint, nor priest, nor poet can reveal
The true construction which, obscure and grand,
Life's sacramental depths conceal—
Secret of secrets, yet be sure
At hand.
109

We hear it spoken round us everywhere,
We know that it is blazon'd far and wide;
It falls with dew through evening air,
It glitters, with the fallen star
Descried.
Peace—we have heard it understanding not!
Silence—it fills the silent halls of night!
The heart knew once, the heart forgot,
And yet again the heart recalls:
O God, recall it in Thy morning light!
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