We mortal spirits, in great darkness set.
Have yet our lamps of comforting, our small
And beamy homes, whose little shinings fret
The gloom that hems us in with heavy pall.
And light us from our ventures in the dark
And drive our fears away with cheery spark.

And some place many tapers here and there,
To twinkle eyes of welcome ; and if one
Go out, they bravely to another fare,
Nor sit them down and weep till all be done ;
And some have but a single taper's light.
One fiery bud springing in wastes of night.

But unto all the Gatherer comes in turn,
Plucking the lights up like to yellow flowers.
Until his very raiment seems to burn,
And from his laden arms fall flaming showers
That splash in pools of brightness round his feet.
Whilst the grim night before him doth retreat.

Ah ! much we mourn, and yet I think he brings
His glowing burden to a secret field,
And there into a giant heap he flings
The lights whose separate shining did but yield
A hole in the dark, nor burned that dark away
Which in full time this growing fire shall slay.