Keep the secret sense celestial
        Of the starry birth;
Though about you call the bestial
        Voices of the earth.

If a thousand ages since
        Hurled us from the throne: 
Then a thousand ages wins
        Back again our own.

Sad one, dry away your tears: 
        Sceptred you shall rise,
Equal mid the crystal spheres
        With seraphs kingly wise.

—­February, 1894

H. P. B.  (In Memoriam.)

Though swift the days flow from her day,
        No one has left her day unnamed: 
We know what light broke from her ray
        On us, who in the truth proclaimed

Grew brother with the stars and powers
        That stretch away—­away to light,
And fade within the primal hours,
        And in the wondrous First unite.

We lose with her the right to scorn
        The voices scornful of her truth: 
With her a deeper love was born
        For those who filled her days with ruth.

To her they were not sordid things: 
        In them sometimes—­her wisdom said—­
The Bird of Paradise had wings;
        It only dreams, it is not dead.

We cannot for forgetfulness
        Forego the reverence due to them,
Who wear at times they do not guess
        The sceptre and the diadem.

With wisdom of the olden time
        She made the hearts of dust to flame;
And fired us with the hope sublime
        Our ancient heritage to claim;

That turning from the visible,
        By vastness unappalled nor stayed,
Our wills might rule beside that Will
        By which the tribal stars are swayed;

And entering the heroic strife,
        Tread in the way their feet have trod
Who move within a vaster life,
        Sparks in the Fire—­Gods amid God.

—­August 15, 1894

By the Margin of the Great Deep

When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,
        All its vapourous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam
With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;
        I am one with the twilight’s dream.

When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,
        Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast: 
Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,
        I am one with their hearts at rest.

From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love,
        Strayed away along the margin of the unknown tide,
All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above
        Word or touch from the lips beside.

Aye, and deep, and deep, and deeper let me drink and draw
        From the olden Fountain more than light or peace or dream,
Such primeval being as o’erfills the heart with awe,
        Growing one with its silent stream.