Page:Poet Lore, volume 26, 1915.djvu/133



Thus doth bend to me the hour
 * With clear metallic sound;

My senses are trembling, I feel my power,
 * And I seize the plastic day's round.

Naught was complete ere I saw it
 * And all creation stood still;

My eyes are ripe, like a bride to be,—
 * To ev’ry one cometh the thing of his will.

Naught is too small but I love it well,
 * And paint it large on golden ground,

And I hold it high, for I cannot foretell
 * Whose soul thereby will be unbound.

I live my life in circles that grow,
 * And are drawn over things that be;

The last mayhap I must ever forego,
 * But strive to reach it I may.

I turn about God; round the ancient tower’s form
 * On æons and æons I am borne along;

And I know not yet, am I falcon or storm,
 * Or one great song.