As if an earthy wind
That never bore a leaf or cloud
Were pressing hard behind.

They shake, they groan, they outward strain.
What sight, of dire dismay
Will freeze its form upon my brain,
And turn it into clay?

They shake, they groan, they bend, they crack;
The bars, the doors divide:
A flood of glory at their back
Hath burst the portals wide.

Flows in the light of vanished days,
The joy of long-set moons;
The flood of radiance billowy plays,
In sweet-conflicting tunes.

The gulf is filled with flashing tides,
An awful gulf no more;
A maze of ferns clothes all its sides,
Of mosses all its floor.

And, floating through the streams, appear
Such forms of beauty rare,
As every aim at beauty here
Had found its _would be_ there.

I said: 'Tis well no hand came nigh,