Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/127

 And yet these days of subtler air and finer Delight, When lovelier looks the darkness, and diviner The light--

The gift they give of all these golden hours, Whose urn Pours forth reverberate rays or shadowing showers In turn--

Clouds, beams, and winds that make the live day's track Seem living-- What were they did no spirit give them back Thanksgiving?

Dead air, dead fire, dead shapes and shadows, telling Time nought; Man gives them sense and soul by song, and dwelling In thought.