Of life, where runs the tide-race of the soul

 In my control.

 “Though my wild way may ruin what it bends,

 It makes amends

 To the frail downy clocks,

 Telling their seed a secret that unlocks

 The granite rocks.

 “The womb of silence to the crave sound

 Is heaven unfound,

 Till I, to soothe and slake

 Being’s most utter and imperious ache,

 Bid rhythm awake.

12

 “If with such agonies of bliss, my kin,

 I enter in

 Your prison house of sense,

 With what a joyous freed intelligence

 I shall go hence.”

 I need no more to guess the weaver’s name,

 Nor ask his aim,

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