Give me thy pitiful, soft-moulded hand,
And we will bide in silence, Thou and I;
Within the choirèd poem of the sky
Thine is the voice I cannot understand.
Give me thy hand and let the heart command:
My mind is blurred, and yet I seem to know
Darkly what men have spoken of, and now
The Word itself their lips have never spanned,
Nor I shall ever speak it, nor shall they
That illustrate to-morrow with their birth;
The tongue is tethered—we can just obey;
And from the gates of sunrise issue dumb,
Illumined—while the spirit of the earth
Reveals her secret, knowing we have come.