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. |