There is a godhead of unrealised things    To which Time’s splendid gains are hoarded dross;A cry seems near, a rustle of silver wings    Calling to heavenly joy by earthly loss.

All eye has seen and all the ear has heard    Is a pale illusion by some greater voiceAnd mightier vision; no sweet sound or word,    No passion of hues that make the heart rejoice

Can equal those diviner ecstasies.    A Mind beyond our mind has sole the kenOf those yet unimagined harmonies,    The fate and privilege of unborn men.

As rain-thrashed mire the marvel of the rose,Earth waits that distant marvel to disclose.

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