IV.
And, in the tumult and excess
Of act and passion under sun,
We sometimes hear—oh, soft and far,
As silver star did touch with star,
The kiss of Peace and Righteousness
Through all things that are done.
V.
God keeps his holy mysteries
Just on the outside of man's dream!
In diapason slow, we think
To hear their pinions rise and sink,
While they float pure beneath His eyes,
Like swans adown a stream.
VI.
Abstractions, are they, from the forms
Of His great beauty?—exaltations
From His great glory?—strong preyisions
Of what we shall be?—intuitions
Of what we are—in calms and storms,
Beyond our peace and passions?
VII.
Things nameless! which, in passing so,
Do stroke us with a subtle grace.
We say, "Who passes?"—they are dumb:
We cannot see them go or come:
Their touches fell soft—cold—as snow
Upon a blind man's face.
