He is not ours, for heaven has only lent
His presence here, whose heart is seamed with scars
Made by renunciations, and the wars
Waged with the World wherein the soul is pent.
He treads our paths, but still his gaze is bent
On Him whose glance through Chaos lit the stars.
These mortal years are but as prison-bars
That keep him from the skies in discontent.

He hears the cryptic clarion's far appeals
To scale the heights of being, and to drink
From founts that mystics only, have divined:
In trance, he trembles on the crystal brink
Of spirit revelation, while he feels
Immortal pinions springing in the mind.