VIII.

So keyed thy sacred song, O poet true! With holy joy its very sorrow light, So glorified with that love infinite That shines as stars in heaven’s darkest blue: Washed clean thy earth-born lays in that pure flood— Thy cloudy mountains hide no fear save one Of loving awe; though in dark gorge the sun Falls not, e’en there the Eternal Dove doth brood. Thy mountain springs are pure, wherein we dare Drink as we will, not fearing, so bent down, We shall lose sight of heaven’s fairer crown And find but our own likeness resting there. Fresh with a dew bearing no stain of earth, Thy hill-paths lead unto our Father’s hearth.