Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/120

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Yet, touching so, they draw above

Our common thoughts to Heaven's unknown—

Our daily joy and pain, advance

To a divine significance,—

Our human love—O mortal love,

That light is not its own!

And, sometimes, horror chills our blood,

To be so near such mystic Things;

And we wrap round us, for defence,

Our purple manners, moods of sense—

As angels, from the face of God,

Stand hidden in their wings.

And, sometimes, through Life's heavy swound,

We grope for them!—with strangled breath

We stretch our hands abroad, and try

To reach them in our agony,—

And widen, so, the broad life-wound,

Which soon is large enough for death.