These bones have life, and this heart knows
The poem that this hand has writ
The wind of God within it blows,
The light of God, too, shines in it.
Gather the words as sands, and cast
Them in the silence of the sphere,
The imaginary sound shall last
Till thought grows deaf to all things here
Ay! then regather, word by word,
The wonder of the mystic pen,
And ye shall hear a lonely bird
Singing within the hearts of men.
A form, a color, light and air,
'Tis like the soul — a phantasy
Which men may picture anywhere
Till God becomes a memory!