LIV

That Beauty in which all things work and move,

      That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse

      Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love

      Which through the web of being blindly wove

      By man and beast and earth and air and sea,

      Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of

      The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me,

Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.