His eyes are quickened so with grief,

He can watch a grass or leaf

Every instant grow; he can

Clearly through a flint wall see,

Or watch the startled spirit flee

From the throat of a dead man.

And catch your words before you speak.

The woodlouse or the maggot's weak

Clamour rings in his sad ear;

And noise so slight it would surpass

Credence:—drinking sound of grass,

Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth

Chumbling holes in cloth:

The groan of ants who undertake

Gigantic loads for honour's sake,

Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin:

Whir of spiders when they spin,

And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs

Of idle grubs and flies.

He wanders god-like or like thief

Inside and out, below, above,

Without relief seeking lost love.