Which hovered o'er me, like the moon of dreams;

And seemed to draw the wandering tides of life

In one vast wave, which ever strove

To climb the heavens wherein she moved,

That it might break in triumphing foam about her.

Not then, nor ever afterwards,

Was I a slave, among my fellow-slaves,

But one, who, with mean drudgery,

And daily penance serves

Before a holy altar,

That, sometimes, as he labours, his glad eyes

May catch a gleam of the immortal light

Within the secret shrine;

Yea! and, maybe, shall look, one day, with trembling,

On the bright-haired, imperishable god.

And, even when, day after day,

I bore the big reed-baskets, laden

With wet clay, digged beyond the Western moat,

Although I seemed to tread,

As treads the ox that turns the water-wheel,

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