These strewn thoughts, by the mountain pathway sprung,

I conned for comfort, till I ceased to grieve,

And with these flowering thorns I dare to weave

The crown, great Mother, on thine altar hung.

Teach thou a larger speech to my loosed tongue,

And to mine opened eyes thy secrets give,

That in thy perfect love I learn to live,

And in thine immortality be young.

The soul is not on earth an alien thing

That hath her life's rich sources otherwhere;

She is a parcel of the sacred air.

She takes her being from the breath of Spring,

The glance of Phoebus is her fount of light,

And her long sleep a draught of primal night.