There is a godhead of unrealised things
                    To which Time's splendid gains are hoarded dross ;
               A cry seems near, a rustle of silver wings
                    Calling to heavenly joy by earthly loss.

              All eye has seen and all the ear has heard
                    Is a pale illusion by some greater voice
              And mightier vision; no sweet sound or word,
                    No passion of hues that make the heart rejoice

              Can equal these diviner ecstasies.
                    A Mind beyond our mind has sole the ken
              Of those yet unimagined harmonies,
                    The fate and privilege of unborn men.

              As rain-thrashed mire the marvel of the rose,
              Earth waits that distant marvel to disclose.

                   23.3.44