Whose souls have strength to conceive and perceive thee, Pan,

With sense more subtle than senses that hear and see.

Yet may not it say, though it seek thee and think to find

One soul of sense in the fire and the frost-bound clod,

What heart is this, what spirit alive or blind,

That moves thee: only we know that the ways we trod

We tread, with hands unguided, with feet unshod,

With eyes unlightened; and yet, if with steadfast mind,

Perchance may we find thee and know thee at last for God.

Yet then should God be dark as the dawn is bright,

And bright as the night is dark on the world—no more.

Light slays not darkness, and darkness absorbs not light;

And the labour of evil and good from the years of yore

[Pg 136]

Is even as the labour of waves on a sunless shore.

And he who is first and last, who is depth and height,

Keeps silence now, as the sun when the woods wax hoar.

The dark dumb godhead innate in the fair world's life

Imbues the rapture of dawn and of noon with dread,

Infects the peace of the star-shod night with strife,

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