THE forms that in our life's reflecting glass
Confront the passive consciousness alone,
Are as unmated blossoms, hardly blown,
Ere doomed in sad virginity to pass;
But when some wandering love once bends to them,
Some waft of life endues the Fact with power,
Or moves the slumbering ardours of the flower,—
God's gift creative, straight extends to them.

O fire divine that kindles virile souls
That dwell among us, touch our thoughts with light
Of lyric love, that they once more may tremble
Into new life, which shall the old resemble;
But owning added strength and keener sight
For striving on to unimagined goals.