The inexpressible pathways it hath trod, led

By intense silence, boding o’er the years:

It will not lend its harmony to words,

Nor lower reality by visions, torn

From knowledge fitful, that but speaks to herds,

Quivering with mutual wonder, mutual scorn.

Yet love is there, and will, in time, inform

All who have passed to sunshine out of storm.

{20}

{20}

XX.

Wandering to other strains, my fancy dwells

Yet about the musings that enwrap thy name;

Aught that awakes some peal from far joy-bells,

Youth’s hopes, and holydays, recalls thy fame:

This hast thou sanctified by eloquent words,

And that enshrinèd in thy beauty lies;

As spring awakes and calls the joyous birds,

Truth comes with thee, at thy departure flies:

Yet gladlier o’er thy image would I pause,

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