Which, like the springing of a mine,
Sends up to heaven the street-long shout:
Full well I know that thou wast here;
That was thy breath that thrilled mine ear;
But vainly, in the stress and whirl,
I dive for thee, the moment's pearl.

Through every shape thou well canst run,
Proteus, 'twixt rise and set of sun,
Well pleased with logger-camps in Maine
As where Milan's pale Duomo lies
A stranded glacier on the plain,
Its peaks and pinnacles of ice
Melted in many a quaint device,
And sees, across the city's din,
Afar its silent Alpine kin;
I track thee over carpets deep
To Wealth's and Beauty's inmost keep;
Across the sand of bar-room floors,
'Mid the stale reek of boosing boors;
Where drowse the hayfield's fragrant heats,
Or the flail-heart of Autumn beats;
I dog thee through the market's throngs,
To where the sea with myriad tongues
Laps the green fringes of the pier,
And the tall ships that eastward steer
Curtsy their farewells to the town,
O'er the curved distance lessening down;--
I follow allwhere for thy sake,--
Touch thy robe's hem, but ne'er o'ertake,--