WHEN gathering shells cast upwards by the waves
Of progress, they who note its ebb and flow,
Its flux and re-flux, surely come to know
That the sea-level rises; that dark caves
Of ignorance are flooded, and foul graves
Of sin are cleansed; albeit the work is slow;
Till, seeing great from less for ever grow,
Law comes to mean for them the Love that saves

And leaning down the ages, my dull ear,
Catching their slow-ascending harmonies,
I am uplift of them, and borne more near,
I feel within my flesh—laid pupa-wise—
A soul of worship, tho' of vision dim,
Which links me with wing-folded cherubim.