From vast pavilions cold and grey,
My wingèd thoughts upmounting fly;
“Press on,” the cloud-horizons say,
“Your dreams are pathways up the sky.”
“Press on,” the beacon star-lamps tall
Of mighty constellations call.

A hundred thousand things I pass,—
Each is to me a thing apart,
A flake of snow, a blade of grass,
Its face I see, but not its heart;
I lack the magic cord that ties
All things I wis, to make me wise.

And yet a music sweet and dim
Swells often to a strain sublime,
As if the singing seraphim
Had drowned the thunder-tones of time,
And heaven were presently to show
The wonders that the angels know.