To Clari

THOUGH on the dullest dust we tread,
Our days are closed about with dread;
Before our footsteps and behind
Burns the white Light that keeps us blind.

If Life were all, if Love were clay,
If the great Dream could pass away,
If thou or I could cease to be,
That Light would fade, and we should see \

Yea, see and know, and swiftly pass,
Like shapes from a magician's glass; —
But girt by godhead we remain,
Though human systems wax and wane.

Enough! we fear not, thou and I,
Knowing we were not born to die,
Because, at every step we tread,
Our days are closed about with dread.