Draws near, makes pause, and again—or I dream—draws near?

More soft than shadow, more strong than the strong sun's light,

More pure than moonbeams—yea, but the rays run sheer

As fire from the sun through the dusk of the pinewood, clear

And constant; yea, but the shadow itself is bright

That the light clothes round with love that is one with fear.

Above and behind it the noon and the woodland lie,

Terrible, radiant with mystery, superb and subdued,

Triumphant in silence; and hardly the sacred sky

Seems free from the tyrannous weight of the dumb fierce mood

Which rules as with fire and invasion of beams that brood

The breathless rapture of earth till its hour pass by

And leave her spirit released and her peace renewed.

I sleep not: never in sleep has a man beholden

This. From the shadow that trembles and yearns with light

Suppressed and elate and reluctant—obscure and golden

[Pg 138]

As water kindled with presage of dawn or night—

A form, a face, a wonder to sense and sight,

Grows great as the moon through the month; and her eyes embolden

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