ABSTRACT
Frail clouds arrayed in sunlight lose the glory, which they reflect on Earth they burn and die Revive and change like genius, and when hoary. They streak the sunless air, then suddenly. If the white moon shines forth, their shadows lie. Like woven pearl beneath its beams each tone. Of the many-voiced forest doth reply to symphonies diviner than its own Then falls and fades, like thought when power is past and gone. There is a Power whose passive instrument. Our nature is a Spirit that with motion. Invisible and swift its breath hath sent amongst us, like the wind on the wide Ocean Around whose path though tumult and commotion. Throng fast deep calm doth follow, and proceeds. This Spirit chained by some remote devotion, our choice or will demandeth not nor heedeth. But for its hymns do touch the human souls it needeth.
