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And when the soul has torn the fleshly veil, And moves majestic to that monotone, When echo-like upon the air I sail Whither the wingèd skylark, Faith, has flown, And borne me fainting upward; then my soul May seek the God of art which silent, lone, Broods on a crystal-argent sea, the goal Of all humanity. Incarnate pain Is calmed to everlasting peace. There roll No waves upon the sea. Charmed has it lain Through incommensurate time; charmed will it lie Through all eternity; and there again Upon my soul in silence wrapped, shall sigh, Most beautiful—a mother's lullaby. December, 1912. January, 1913. |
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