Where solitude makes music unto silence,
By forests arching over deep slow streams;
Or, where huge rocks guard oceans, giving high sense
Of gods in-dwelling through immortal dreams;
There stands a shadow, beckoning to the insight,
Of a world, far vaster, fuller, more intense,
It sweeps away the cobwebs of our dim sight;
The pigmy world dwindles near shapes immense:
’Tis then, that voice, passion, shape, action, thought,
Lose all the colours caught from phantom life;
And all is given, that even presumption sought;
And there is peace, without the bubble strife:
’Tis but a moment we may blissful be;
Soon grate the irons that mind us we’re not free.