Upon the Poet’s soul they flash forever,
In evening shades, these glimpses strange and sweet;
They fill his heart betimes,—they leave him never,
And haunt his steps with sounds of falling feet;
He walks beside a mystery night and day;
Still wanders where the sacred spring is hidden;
Yet, would he take the seal from the forbidden,
Then must he work and watch as well as pray!
How work? How watch? Beside him—in his way,—
Springs without check the flow’r by whose choice spell,—
More potent than “herb moly,”—he can tell
Where the stream rises, and the waters play!—
Ah! spirits call’d avail not! On his eyes,
Sealed up with stubborn clay, the darkness lies.
