That whisper takes the voice

Of a Spirit’s compassionings

Close, but invisible,

And throws me under a spell

At the kindling vision it brings;

And for a moment I rejoice,

And believe in transcendent things

That would mould from this muddy earth

A spot for the splendid birth

Of everlasting lives,

Whereto no night arrives;

And this gaunt gray gallery

A tabernacle of worth

On this drab-aired afternoon,

When you can barely see

Across its hazed lacune

If opposite aught there be

Of fleshed humanity

Wherewith I may commune;

Or if the voice so near

Be a soul’s voice floating here.