There is a godhead of unrealised things

To which Time’s splendid gains are hoarded dross;

A cry seems near, a rustle of silver wings

Calling to heavenly joy by earthly loss.

All eye has seen and all the ear has heard

Is a pale illusion by some greater voice

And mightier vision; no sweet sound or word,

No passion of hues that make the heart rejoice

Can equal these diviner ecstasies.

A Mind beyond our mind has sole the ken

Of those yet unimagined harmonies,

The fate and privilege of unborn men.

As rain-thrashed mire the marvel of the rose,

Earth waits that distant marvel to disclose.