Page:The roamer and other poems (1920).djvu/94

But that which dreamt, in sad and lonely hearts
Of lovelier Edens than their earthly fields,
And brought the mortal seed to heavenly flower.
O mystic Might! that from the soul puts forth
Its blossom, lighting heaven, till it shall close
Far off and fallen in the unforeseeing deep!
Wonderful, Earth, from thy dark soil it comes,
Flower of the spirit, in highest heaven up-borne,
Supreme of things, far-shining, the Ideal!
Clothed on with beauty of the world below,
That from the mortal senses takes its form
And radiance,—not alone the outer frame
Of eye and ear and touch, material things,
But all that loveliness within the soul,
The holy burden of its great ideas,
The splendor of its passions unto death,
Wrapping the world in little spiritual flames,—
How mounts the Dream! up! up!—born of the dust!—
Brighter than lifted once on glory's height
The Sacred Way, that loudest oft proclaimed
Earth's victor, thronged with captives and with spoils,
Where consul-captains of great Rome enthroned
Drew their long triumphs to the Capitol!

They on their shoulders bore the mighty world: