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George Essex Evans - The Spirit Of PoetryGeorge Essex Evans - The Spirit Of Poetry
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All things are Hers. Concealed or manifest,     Found or unfound, Her Spirit lives in each— Dumb till the Master-Soul its secret guessed                 And gave its silence speech. All things are Hers. She is the Crystal Queen     Of all men’s vision, and the moving breath Which through the greyness of the sordid scene                 Gloweth and quickeneth. She is the flower-maid of the dreaming noon,     The goddess of the temple of the night; Where the berg-turrets gleam beneath the moon                 She builds Her throne of white. She knows the Battle-Hymn of mighty wars     When wind and ocean thunder on the strand. She knows the song the lonely river-bars                 Sing to the listening land. Armoured and helmeted and spurred for fight     She fires men’s hearts to right the bitter wrong; Yet sits She weaving of a summer night                 Flowers of a bridal song. She gives the temper that has made men great     And fashioned heroes out of common clay, And welded firm into a mighty State                 The tribes of yesterday. Youth’s radiant vision, and the dreamy dawn     Of the soft lovelight in a maiden’s eyes, And holiest joys of motherhood, are drawn                 By Her from Paradise. She knows the Wheel-Song of the Stars that run     Their glittering courses through the blue abyss. Ere the round earth fell flaming from the sun                 Her spirit was, and is. She is the Phoeix, ever making true     The dim tradition of the misty morn. The crucible of science gives anew                 Her fairy form re-born. All things are Hers—but not with equal word     Dowers She the pilgrims of the sacred shrine. Only the Great Interpreters have heard                 Her melodies divine. All things are Hers, and so to Her I bring     Songs of the dreams that haunt me on my way— I who scarce hear the rustle of Her wing                 Borne on the wind away!
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