Classic Poem

A QUESTION.

Soul, spirit, genius -which thou art - that whence I know not, rose upon this mortal frame
Like the sun o'er the mountains, all aflame,
Seen large through mists of childish innocence,
And year by year with me uptravelling thence,
As hour by hour the day-star, madest aspire -
My nature, interpenetrate with fire It felt but understood not - strong, intense,
Wisdom with folly mix'd, and gold with clay -
Soul, thou hast journey'd with me all this way.
Oft hidden and o'erclouded, oft array'd
In scorching splendours that my earth-life burn'd.
Yet ever unto thee my true life turn'd, lor, dim or clear,'t was thou my day-light imade

II. SOUL,

dwelling oft in God's infinitude,
And sometimes seeming no more part of me -
This me, worms' heritage—than that sun can be
Part of the earth he has with warmth imbued,
Whence camest thou? whither goest thou? I, subdued
With awe of mine own being—thus sit still,
Dumb, on the summit of this lonely hill,
Whose dry November-grasses dew-bestrewed.
Mirror a million suns—That sun, so bright,
Passes, as thou must pass, Soul, into night:
Art thou afr'aid, who solitary hast trod
A path I know not, from a source to a bourne,
Both which I know not? fear'st thou to return
Alone, even as thou camest, alone, to God?