Thou gazest and the picture fades away
Like visions after sleep. But unto thee
One thing remaineth which thou still canst see,
Like midnight meteors when they flash astray.
It is the woven crown of thorns, and lo,
Behind it, on thy dim and awe-struck sight
There rises up a cross of pale sad light
That slowly deepens till its very glow
Reaches thy inmost soul that, kneeling down
Beneath a sorrow which all speech but mars,
Sees, as a glory rises in the night,
Through the rough circlet of the thorny crown
Another issue forth that to the sight
Becomes a blinding splendour thick with stars.