When Morning, with a hundred wings,
Broke through the curtain-chink; and wept
The earth, at what the day-break brings:
The body slept.

A little yet the early sky,
With gold and blue, shall be astir
For you; while you are passing by:
But not for her:

Go! let the voices of your feet
Speak thoughts beyond the tongue's control;
For now, in ways where all things meet,
Now sleeps the soul.

Go! nor forget the steadfast gaze,
That, loosed in Death, hath pierced the night
Of the great mystery of our days,
With eyes of light.