He takes the glory from the gold For consecration of the mould, He strains his ears to the clouds' lips, He sings the song they sang to him And his brow dips In amber that the seraphim Have held for him and hold. So shut in are our lives, so still, That we see not of good or ill A dead world since ourselves are dead. Till he, the master, speaks and lo! The dead world's shed, Strange winds, new skies and rivers flow Illumined from the hill. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 60. AL-MU'HID by EDWIN ARNOLD SONGS OF NIGHT TO MORNING: 5 by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE DAYS OF '84 by RANDOLPH BEDFORD THE CHRISTENING by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN DON JUAN: CANTO 4 by GEORGE GORDON BYRON FOURTH BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 12 by THOMAS CAMPION TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 4. THE ONE FOUNDATION by EDWARD CARPENTER |