Our godhead calls us in unrealised things.

Asleep in the wide fields of destiny,

A world guarded by Silence’ rustling wings

Sheltered their fine impossibility.

But part, but quiver the cerulean gates,

Close splendours look into our dreaming eyes,

We bear proud deities and magnificent fates;

Faces and hands come near from Paradise.

What shone thus far above is here in us;

Bliss unattained our future’s birthright is;

Beauty of our dim soul is amorous;

We are the heirs of infinite widenesses.

The impossible is the hint of what shall be,

Mortal the door to immortality.