Art thou not goddess of this world, O Change?
Expound the riddle, otherwise who may,
Yet can I never from thy altar range,
Nature, artificer in a various way!
Enough for me if I may still adore
Each touch that throbs from thy maternal breast;
If I may linger by the lonely shore,
And find a universe of Elysian rest.
If that with hands reverent and pure and holy
I drag some relics from the unworthy shade,
Thou wilt assist, and fashion visions wholly
After the pattern which thyself hast made!
How more than mortal poor mankind should be,
If taught to crown the yearnings found in thee.