What will Thou in me behold When aspiration's fire's cold And all Thy love could little mould Such seething spirit young, yet old.
Spectral forms of fantasy Appear in twilight's shadow-streams Images of unreality Vague conjurers of empty dreams.
A prince of dust and breeze I fly Borne on morning's magic's clouds Passing earth's exigencies Clothed in ancient winding shrouds.
On dark peripheries of mind I wait the emptiness of space In life's entanglement I find No constant turn towards Thy Face.
Poems Undated (1727)
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