Mine are the night and morning ,
The pits of air and gulf of space ,
The sportive sun the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days .
I hid in the solar glory
I am dumb in the pealing song
I rest on the pitch of torrent
In slumber I am strong.
No numbers have counted my tallies
No tribes my house can fill
I sit by the shinning fount of life
And pore the deluge still
And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers
My wreath shall nothing miss .
And many thousands summers
My apples ripened well
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell .
