High over the hills, and high over The trees, and high over their clouds, and high Over the stars that blossom like sweet clover When June is old, stepping the scented sky, A spirit stirs -- I shall not spell his name -- A spirit grows -- I shall not bare his face -- A spirit ever nevermore the same, Yet rippling waterwise from his high place, Till in the sightless eddy of his flowing The shining stars, the clouds, the glowing trees, The hills that are forever downward flowing Into their mother and their tomb, the seas, Shiver and bud and blossom, thus to be One with his being, which is ecstasy. |