As one who cleaves the circumambient air
Seeking in azure what it lacks in space,
And sees a young and finely chiselled face
Filled with foretastes of wisdom yet more rare;
Touching and yet untouched—unmeasured grace!
A breathing credo and a living prayer—
Yet of the earth, still earthy; debonair
The while in heaven it seeketh for a place.

So thy dear eyes and thy kind lips but say—
Ere from his cerements Timon seems to flit:
"What of the reaper grim with sickle keen?"
And then the sunlight ushers in new day
And for our tasks our bodies seem more fit—
"Might of the night, unfleeing, sight unseen."

Charles Battell Loomis.