A life more bright than the sun's face, bowed Through stress of season and coil of cloud, Sets: and the sorrow that casts out fear Scarce deems him dead in his chill still shroud, Dead on the breast of the dying year, Poet and painter and friend, thrice dear For love of the suns long set, for love Of song that sets not with sunset here, For love of the fervent heart, above Their sense who saw not the swift light move That filled with sense of the loud sun's lyre The thoughts that passion was fain to prove In fervent labour of high desire And faith that leapt from its own quenched pyre Alive and strong as the sun, and caught From darkness light, and from twilight fire. Passion, deep as the depths unsought Whence faith's own hope may redeem us nought, Filled full with ardour of pain sublime His mourning song and his mounting thought. Elate with sense of a sterner time, His hand's flight clomb as a bird's might climb Calvary: dark in the darkling air That shrank for fear of the crowning crime, Three crosses rose on the hillside bare, Shown scarce by grace of the lightning's glare That clove the veil of the temple through And smote the priests on the threshold there. The soul that saw it, the hand that drew, Whence light as thought's or as faith's glance flew, And stung to life the sepulchral past, And bade the stars of it burn anew, Held no less than the dead world fast The light live shadows about them cast, The likeness living of dawn and night, The days that pass and the dreams that last. Thought, clothed round with sorrow as light, Dark as a cloud that the moon turns bright, Moved, as a wind on the striving sea, That yearns and quickens and flags in flight, Through forms of colour and song that he Who fain would have set its wide wings free Cast round it, clothing or chaining hope With lights that last not and shades that flee. Scarce in song could his soul find scope, Scarce the strength of his hand might ope Art's inmost gate of her sovereign shrine, To cope with heaven as a man may cope. But high as the hope of a man may shine The faith, the fervour, the life divine That thrills our life and transfigures, rose And shone resurgent, a sunbright sign, Through shapes whereunder the strong soul glows And fills them full as a sunlit rose With sense and fervour of life, whose light The fool's eye knows not, the man's eye knows. None that can read or divine aright The scriptures writ of the soul may slight The strife of a strenuous soul to show More than the craft of the hand may write.