XII
To Francis Thompson
With a grey rush of tremulous angel-wings
And pealings of the white-robed orchestra
Wherein ethereal souls were playing a
Concerto of divine imaginings:
With freshness born anew from old-time Springs,
With Summer's flash and Winter's purity,
With Autumn's gentleness he came to me,
And whispered words of visionary things.
Till shafts of dim desire pierced me through,
Till shadows came and went before my eyes,
And my raised glance beheld in deep review
The legionary splendour of the skies.
Which vision past, singing I went my way
And tread the dusty roads of Earth to-day.
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