I am the soul of the Universe,
In Nature's pulse I beat;
To Doom and Death I am a curse,
I trample them under my feet.

Creation's every voice is mine,
I breathe in its every tone;
I have in every heart a shrine,
A consecrated throne.

The whisper that sings in the summer leaves,
The hymn of the star-lit brook,
The martin that nests in the ivied eaves,
The dove in his shaded nook,

The quivering heart of the blushing flower,
The thick Ӕolian grass,
The harmonies of the summer shower,
The south wind's soft, sweet mass,

The psalm of the great grave sea,- are mine;
The cataract's thunder tongue,
The monody of the mountain pine,
Moaning the cliffs among.

I kiss the snowy breasts of the maiden,
And they thrill with a new delight;
While the crimson pulses flush and redden,
Along the forehead's white.

I fill the restless heart of the boy,
As a sphere is filled with fire,
Till it quivers and trembles with hope and joy,
Like the strings of a golden lyre.

I touch the poet's soul with my wing,
It yields to my magic power,
And the songs of his mighty passions ring,
Till the world is full of the shower.

The heart of the soldier bows to me,
His arms aside are flung,
Unheeded the wild sublimity
Of the silver trumpet's tongue.

I brood on the soul like a golden thrush,
My music to it clings,
And its purple fountains throb and flush,
In the crimson light of my wings.

Deep in a lovely woman's soul
I love to build my throne,
For the harmonies that through it roll
Are the echoes of one tone.

The sounds of its many perfect strings
Have but one key-note ever,
Its passions are the thousand springs,
All flowing to one river.