Classic Poem

O thou whose image in the shrine
Of human spirits dwells divine,
Which from that precinct once conveyed
To be to outer day displayed
Doth vanish, part, and leave behind
Mere blank and void of empty mind,
Which wilful fancy seeks in vain
With casual shapes to fill again—

O thou that in our bosoms' shrine
Dost dwell because unknown divine,
I thought to speak, I thought to say
‘The light is here’, ‘behold the way’,
‘The voice was thus’, and ‘thus the word’,
And ‘thus I saw’, and ‘that I heard’,—
But from the lips but half essayed
The imperfect utterance fell unmade.

O thou in that mysterious shrine
Enthroned, as we must say, divine,
I will not frame one thought of what
Thou mayest either be or not.
I will not prate of ‘thus’ and ‘so’,
And be profane with ‘yes’ and ‘no’;
Enough that in our soul and heart
Thou, whatsoe'er thou may'st be, art.

Unseen, secure in that high shrine
Acknowledged present and divine,
I will not ask some upper air,
Some future day, to place thee there;
Nor say, nor yet deny, Such men
Or women saw thee thus and then;
Thy name was such, and there or here
To him or her thou didst appear.

Do only thou in that dim shrine
Unknown or known remain divine.
There, or if not, at least in eyes
That scan the world that round them lies.
The hand to sway, the judgement guide,
In sight and sense thyself divide:
Be thou but there,—in soul and heart
I will not ask to feel thou art.* A hymn, yet not a hymn.