The Awakening

The Soul, of late a lovely sleeping child, Spreads sudden wings and stands in radiant guise, Eyed like the morn and bent upon the skies; Her the blue gulf dismays not, nor the wild Horizons with the wrecks of thunder piled; Storm has she known, and how its murmur dies Starlike through stainless heavens she would rise And be no more with cloudy dreams beguiled. Was sleep not sweet?--sweet till on sleeping ears Earth's voices broke in discord. Now she hears Far, far away diviner music move; Nor shall her wing be sated of its flight, Nor shall her eyes be weary of the night, While round her sweep the singing stars of Love.