Page:Hymns of the Marshes.djvu/37

 The blackest night could bring us brighter news.

Yet precious qualities of silence haunt

Round these vast margins, ministrant.

Oh. if thy soul's at latter gasp for space,

With trying to breathe no bigger than thy race

Just to be fellow'd, when that thou hast found

No man with room, or grace enough of bound

To entertain that New thou tell'st, thou art,—

'Tis here, 'tis here thou canst unhand thy heart

And breathe it free, and breathe it free,

By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty.

The tide's at full: the marsh with flooded streams

Glimmers, a limpid labyrinth of dreams.

Each winding creek in grave entrancement lies

A rhapsody of morning-stars. The skies

Shine scant with one forked galaxy,—

The marsh brags ten: looped on his breast they lie.