THINE be the winds of devotion,

Thine be the stars of flame,—

Their whisper to echo that Music,

Their outline to girdle the Name.

The world is a shadowy motion,—

The dream at the back of a dream,

With days that faint echo the Footstep,

And fields that wan-mirror the Gleam.

Token re-mirrored in token,

Sign that had echoed a sign,—

Might our senses be net of the Hunter,

Our thought-ways a fishing line.

So with not one word spoken,

So with nor ever a look

To Beauty we're borne by the Hunter,

To the soot hafts shore by the hook.