Our fancies are but joys all unexprest,
The rhythm of a carol strange and sweet.
Who would resign his yearning for the best
The arts severe can yield? all incomplete
As is the airy fabric of our dream,
Yet bask we in its rose-encolored gleam.
Take from our life its palpitating hope,
Rob it of those mysterious undertones,
That like the changing angels, fondly grope
Toward harmonies celestial, stifle moans
That, uttered in our longing, half reveal
The soul's deep struggles and far more conceal,--
And what is left us? What avails the lute
When the sweet player's fingers all are cold?
So would it be with us if Hope were mute,
No longer with her magic to unfold
Our dreams' aerial splendor and transform
Their misty shadows to a radiance warm.
Then let us, ever watching rev'rently,
Quaff the pure incense of the morning star,
Heed the impassioned skylark's reverie,
Soaring and singing in the ether far;
And bathe out life each hour in beauty new,
By guarding fresh the soul's impearlèd dew.