The thousand voices that have sung
The wings, the silver shining wings that flew
In brilliant, blinding choirs about,
About and yet about, from hall to hall
Within the grave pavilions of my soul
Lie mute and still
No bird, shot with keenest cruellest arrow,
Fell so utterly, fell so brokenly
To the grim ungiving ground.
No bird, fallen from the fairest finest flight
Lay so scattered and so still
My heart has neither birds nor song
All that remains is earthly
And the low material craving
The hopes of Light are gone –
Of Light and some strange wonder
In an unseen star
An unknown, high ideal.