Lyrics
55
Threaten in smoke;—why, look you, we're a-verge
Of worlds undreamt, and every silly fist
That curses God's a sign! There's wondrous grist
A-grinding, wondrous new-sown corn a-surge.'
New worlds! These things were seedling in dead Cain.
But you, for you old magics yet remain
Of restless whispering winds that press along
Dim casements of the sense-enshuttered brain.
Beauty has called you, and the worlds that wane
From crescent into crescent of thin song.
