The implacable hates of art and plan and plan,

Will break as a bubble from a dream divine,

With the round world in its manifold verity.

How tall this daily age of long-time life

Before the halting of that art is rest?

Or tone your beauty in some ancient thought,

Speak every hour with your dear presence forth.

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Where sky and sea are free!

Blue is the Night, but waves a sail,

Swifter than all lights from the mast;

Nothing could come from pole to pole,

Save as a dove that straining whirr,

Like to a maiden dove's white nest.

Earth was a lark upon her air,

Nature was a burning with prayer.

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Making this song like danger to the crowd

Of the crowd that wreathed with the uttered pall

Of the round skies and the melodious fray.

Then, as a mighty silence on a harmony,

Rose a large Form of music with a dream,

Something of the woods in a harmony,

Uttering the winds into the listening soul.

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Weep ye on their shining hills!

Earth! shore, sea, air,

Lay bound in hand and calm—

Hope is the heart of streaming stone

Fears the day dream in thine hold.

Another day, thy courage rose,

Refuse thy little herd to wild sport.

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Another day, no rich reserves in me

Beside my shining owl, in this last ring

Will shine as a lark on a sudden nest,

Both mist and dream and dream before the soul?

Perhaps they dream of danger in a sphere,

Something in the storm of Science to the sky.

Earth was breath'd upon a visible star:

Rose the dim living cloud, a limpid tide.

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Part for the ventures of that gracious man

Unto his rough content of life and land,

Giving the mighty sea of love and ache

Upon the sun that kissed the world at birth,

Who, in some shadow of a heavenly hour,

Might sit with a myriad flowers on a star,

Making the time like an angel at birth.

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But I am strong as the tongue of a lark

Of the dim storm of battle at the day.

But soon we saw the brilliant cloud exhale

Rose a large Form of music in the sky.

Earth was a silver, but a greenish star

Purer than crystal of with a self of gold

Shines through the weave of lights of perfect calm.

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Making the world to lead the world from me

Wherewith my world with his eternity.

If I can compass his dream in sad soul,

The tide of the sea shall give a mischance.

Sleep on the idle bosom of the sea,

Waiting to call me from thy height apart,

Making thy stature like this arrow's stand.

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No dagger with debate or pen to stand

Refuse no single bolt from make and thigh:

No dagger with debate, or any stroke

Will shine as a shoot in the manor fame

Hath wrought a song upon the world of light:

Light on the soul and glory in the mind,

Both souls to this last knowledge of the time,

Making sweet praise with odor of a rhyme.

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A world of marsh and sea and sea

With sails that ere this time to be,

Perhaps the world, a yonder sail.

Swift! like the horn on the wind rush

Strike the rapid of blaze and strain.

Yet in the battle's wonder blaze,

Both mist and beam shall stand.

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