The Silver Call

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 voice

And 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 ken

Of 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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