The Poem.

These bones have life, and this heart knows The poem that this hand has writ The wind of God within it blows, The light of God, too, shines in it. Gather the words as sands, and cast Them in the silence of the sphere, The imaginary sound shall last Till thought grows deaf to all things here Ay! then regather, word by word, The wonder of the mystic pen, And ye shall hear a lonely bird Singing within the hearts of men. A form, a color, light and air, 'Tis like the soul — a phantasy Which men may picture anywhere Till God becomes a memory!