THE RECONCILER.
209
The World, the Heart are dreamers in their youth
Of visions beautiful, and strange and wild;
And Thou, our Life's Interpreter dost still
At once make clear these visions and fulfil;
Each dim sweet Orphic rhyme,
Each Mythic tale sublime
Of strength to save, of sweetness to subdue,
Each morning dream the few,
Wisdom's first Lovers told, in stately speech,
Within the porch, or underneath the beech,
If read in Thee comes true;
And these did mock the other, saying, "See
These dreamers," but in Thee
Their speech is plain, their witnesses agree;
So doth Earth mock the hearts' fond Faiths and rend
Our idols from our failing grasp, and fling
Dust, dust upon our altar-shrines, yet bring
No worship in their place, but Thou, O Friend
From heaven, that madest this our heart Thine own.
Dost pierce the broken language of its moan—
Thou dost not scorn our needs, but satisfy!
Each yearning deep and wide,
Each claim is justified;
Our young illusions fail not though they die
Within the brightness of Thy Rising, kissed
To happy death, like early clouds that lie
About the gates of Dawn—a golden mist
Paling to blissful white, through rose and amethyst.
Of visions beautiful, and strange and wild;
And Thou, our Life's Interpreter dost still
At once make clear these visions and fulfil;
Each dim sweet Orphic rhyme,
Each Mythic tale sublime
Of strength to save, of sweetness to subdue,
Each morning dream the few,
Wisdom's first Lovers told, in stately speech,
Within the porch, or underneath the beech,
If read in Thee comes true;
And these did mock the other, saying, "See
These dreamers," but in Thee
Their speech is plain, their witnesses agree;
So doth Earth mock the hearts' fond Faiths and rend
Our idols from our failing grasp, and fling
Dust, dust upon our altar-shrines, yet bring
No worship in their place, but Thou, O Friend
From heaven, that madest this our heart Thine own.
Dost pierce the broken language of its moan—
Thou dost not scorn our needs, but satisfy!
Each yearning deep and wide,
Each claim is justified;
Our young illusions fail not though they die
Within the brightness of Thy Rising, kissed
To happy death, like early clouds that lie
About the gates of Dawn—a golden mist
Paling to blissful white, through rose and amethyst.
