And the moon, triumphant when twilight is overpast,
⁠Takes pride but awhile in the hours of her stately sway.
⁠But the might of the noon, though the light of it pass away,
Leaves earth fulfilled of desires and of dreams that last;
⁠But if any there be that hath sense of them none can say.

For if any there be that hath sight of them, sense, or trust
⁠Made strong by the might of a vision, the strength of a dream,
His lips shall straiten and close as a dead man's must,
⁠His heart shall be sealed as the voice of a frost-bound stream.
⁠For the deep mid mystery of light and of heat that seem
To clasp and pierce dark earth, and enkindle dust,
⁠Shall a man's faith say what it is? or a man's guess deem?