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joy.
That makes the circuit of the youngest sky.
What thrill that spirits feel,
Transport of love, or ecstasy
Of still, creative force,
That life shall not at last to thee reveal?
What thrill that spirits feel,
Transport of love, or ecstasy
Of still, creative force,
That life shall not at last to thee reveal?
O make no barren haste—
Thou livest from day to day with God so near!
And well may'st brook
Into those phantom-eyes to look
That freeze in these half-lights our atmosphere:—
Seeing that thou art based
On the immortal Joy—whose spreading bloom
Hath root of substance so divine,
That the perennial heavens which by it shine,
And spring's sure birth, live only to express
Its strength and everlastingness.
Thou livest from day to day with God so near!
And well may'st brook
Into those phantom-eyes to look
That freeze in these half-lights our atmosphere:—
Seeing that thou art based
On the immortal Joy—whose spreading bloom
Hath root of substance so divine,
That the perennial heavens which by it shine,
And spring's sure birth, live only to express
Its strength and everlastingness.
