A cataract of stars, which, with each fall

Broadens and brightens, rapturing the sight

Of angel hosts, that view it from the height

Of knowledge of God's love for one and all

His creatures—and not darkness to appal

The spirit by the quench of every light,

For which God grants it vision—is the night

Of Life's strange mysteries, both great and small.

Oh cataracts, beyond the angels' count,

Pause and shine pendant over every deep

Of heart, mind, spirit! Lo! how down they sweep

To basic Good where, massing, they remount,

Till, mid God's "Many Mansions," high they leap,

Forming forever, joy's most splendent fount!