Our godhead calls us in unrealised things.
Asleep in the wide fields of destiny,
A world guarded by Silence' rustling wings
Sheltered their fine impossibility.
But part, but quiver the cerulean gates,
Close splendours look into our dreaming eyes;
We bear proud deities and magnificent fates;
Faces and hands come near from Paradise.
What shone thus far above is here in us;
Bliss unattained our future's birthright is;
Beauty of our dim soul is amorous,
We are the heirs of infinite widenesses.
The impossible is the hint of what shall be,
Mortal the door to immortality.
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