Thus doth bend to me the hour
With clear metallic sound;
My senses are trembling, I feel my power,
And I seize the plastic day's round.
Naught was complete ere I saw it
And all creation stood still;
My eyes are ripe, like a bride to be,—
To ev’ry one cometh the thing of his will.
Naught is too small but I love it well,
And paint it large on golden ground,
And I hold it high, for I cannot foretell
Whose soul thereby will be unbound.
I live my life in circles that grow,
And are drawn over things that be;
The last mayhap I must ever forego,
But strive to reach it I may.
I turn about God; round the ancient tower’s form
On æons and æons I am borne along;
And I know not yet, am I falcon or storm,
Or one great song.