The soul that saw it, the hand that drew,
Whence light as thought's or as faith's glance flew,
⁠And stung to life the sepulchral past,
And bade the stars of it burn anew,

Held no less than the dead world fast
The light live shadows about them cast,
⁠The likeness living of dawn and night,
The days that pass and the dreams that last.

Thought, clothed round with sorrow as light,
Dark as a cloud that the moon turns bright,
⁠Moved, as a wind on the striving sea,
That yearns and quickens and flags in flight,

Through forms of colour and song that he
Who fain would have set its wide wings free
⁠Cast round it, clothing or chaining hope
With lights that last not and shades that flee.