her have earned;
     Having mastered sensation—­insane
     At a stroke of the terrified nerve;
     And out of the sensual hive
     Grown to the flower of brain;
     To know her a thing alive,
     Whose aspects mutably swerve,
     Whose laws immutably reign. 
     Our sentencer, clother in mist,
     Her morn bends breast to her noon,
     Noon to the hour dark-dyed,
     If we will, of her promptings wise: 
     Her light is our own if we list. 
     The legends that sweep her aside,
     Crying loud for an opiate boon,
     To comfort the human want,
     From the bosom of magical skies,
     She smiles on, marking their source: 
     They read her with infant eyes. 
     Good ships of morality they,
     For our crude developing force;
     Granite the thought to stay,
     That she is a thing alive
     To the living, the falling and strewn. 
     But the Questions, the broods that haunt
     Sensation insurgent, may drive,
     The way of the channelling mole,
     Head in a ground-vault gaunt
     As your telescope’s skeleton moon. 
     Barren comfort to these will she dole;
     Dead is her face to their cries. 
     Intelligence pushing to taste
     A lesson from beasts might heed. 
     They scatter a voice in the waste,
     Where any dry swish of a reed
     By grey-glassy water replies.

     ’They see not above or below;
     Farthest are they from my soul,’
     Earth whispers:  ’they scarce have the thirst,
     Except to unriddle a rune;
     And I spin none; only show,
     Would humanity soar from its worst,
     Winged above darkness and dole,
     How flesh unto spirit must grow. 
     Spirit raves not for a goal. 
     Shapes in man’s likeness hewn
     Desires not; neither desires
     The sleep or the glory:  it trusts;
     Uses my gifts, yet aspires;
     Dreams of a higher than it. 
     The dream is an atmosphere;
     A scale still ascending to knit
     The clear to the loftier Clear. 
     ’Tis Reason herself, tiptoe
     At the ultimate bound of her wit,
     On the verges of Night and Day. 
     But is it a dream of the lusts,
     To my dustiest ’tis decreed;
     And them that so shuffle astray
     I touch with no key of gold
     For the wealth of the secret nook;
     Though I dote over ripeness at play,
     Rosiness fondle and feed,
     Guide it with shepherding crook
     To my sports and my pastures alway. 
     The key will shriek in the lock,
     The door will rustily hinge,
     Will open on features of mould,
     To vanish corrupt at a glimpse,
     And mock as the wild echoes mock,
     Soulless in mimic, doth Greed
     Or the passion for fruitage tinge
     That dream, for your parricide imps
     To wing through the