Lying awake in the darkI have suddenly thought(At the clasp of unseen fingers under my head),"God is no moreThan any apple-bough, then,Where the birds of the air have nest --Than the little, hardly-soughtHome of the field-mouse, high in the tawny grain,Where the spoiler looks in vain;Than the lowly earthen doorWhere the vixen runs to hide, as the bold hunt passesIn flurry of blood-red music and blood-crazed men;Than the bending meadow grassesUnder the breast of the lark."
Lying awake in the nightI have watched with dreadThe wheel of white stars, turning against the sky;For the lack of one would mean that Beauty is deadAnd her lovers' lips shall parch at a well run dry.Yet one by one, Saturn, Orion, Mars,Betelgeuse, and the ancient unnamed starsSlowly took wing from their purple nest on high,A flock of wild swans straining in silver flight,And the flare of their way to the shrouded dayspring streams.Never a diamond plume from their wings shall fall,For these are deathless, as allGreat or little, who yield them to loveliness.God is no lessThan any galaxy, then --Than the farthest palace of dreamsBuilt for the longing of men.
