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A VISION OF POETS.
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The long aisles flashing out in light,
And nave and transept, columns white,
And arches crossed, being clear to sight,

As if the roof were off, and all
Stood in the noon-sun,—"Lo! I call
To other hearts as liberal.

"This pedal strikes out in the air!
My instrument hath room to bear
Still fuller strains and perfecter.

"Herein is room, and shall be room
While Time lasts, for new hearts to come
Consummating while they consume.

"What living man will bring a gift
Of his own heart, and help to lift
The tune?—The race is to the swift!"

So asked the angel. Straight the while,
A company came up the aisle
With measured step and sorted smile;

Cleaving the incense-clouds that rise,
With winking unaccustomed eyes,
And love-locks smelling sweet of spice.

One bore his head above the rest,
As if the world were dispossessed—
And one did pillow chin on breast,

Right languid—an as he should faint!
One shook his curls across his paint,
And moralised on worldly taint.

One, slanting up his face, did wink
The salt rheum to the eyelid's brink,
To think—O gods! or—not to think!

Some trod out stealthily and slow,
As if the sun would fall in snow,
If they walked to, instead of fro.