As one who cleaves the circumambient air
Seeking in azure what it lacks in space,
And sees a young and finely chiselled face
Filled with foretastes of wisdom yet more rare;
Touching and yet untouched--unmeasured grace!
A breathing credo and a living prayer--
Yet of the earth, still earthy; debonair
The while in heaven it seeketh for a place.
So thy dear eyes and thy kind lips but say--
Ere from his cerements Timon seems to flit:
"What of the reaper grim with sickle keen?"
And then the sunlight ushers in new day
And for our tasks our bodies seem more fit--
"Might of the night, unfleeing, sight unseen."
_Charles Battell Loomis_.