How many sparks of fire from flint and steel have flown! How many hearts, like tinder, make those sparks their own! But in the dark some thief his finger presses there; And ev’ry train puts out that has been lighted here. Extinguished if those sparks were not, a flame would rise; A burning light be kindled, flashing ’yond the skies. A thousand snares are laid to catch our tripping feet; But, Lord, if us Thou shield, harm never shall us meet. 65 If but Thy grace will guide us, lead us on our way, No thief can steal our peace of mind, our light of day. Each night Thou settest free the soul from trap of flesh, To scan and learn the hidden records of Thy wish.[86] Each night the soul is like a bird from cage set free, To wander. Judge and judgment, then, it does not see. By night the pris’ner loses sense of bars, of chains; By night the monarch knows no state, no pomp retains; The merchant counts no more, in sleep, his gains and loss; The prince and peasant, equal, on their couches toss. 70 The Gnostic[87] is so e’en by day, when wide awake; For God hath said: “Let quietude care of him take.”[88] Asleep to all the things of earth by night, by day, As pen in writer’s hand he doth his guide obey. Whoever sees not in the lines the writer’s hand, May fancy ’tis the pen alone has all command. Of this, the Gnostic’s privilege, a trace ’d suffice To rob of sleep and reason vulgar souls of ice. His spirit wanders in the groves of th’ absolute. His soul is easy; body, still, calm, quiet, mute. 75 The two absolved from greed, lust, sense, care, fear also; Each, like a bird uncaged, is free; roams to and fro.[89] Should he, birdlike, be whistled back to trap of sense, Again he sinks, the slave of every vile pretence. When light of dawn paints bright the blushing sky with red, Ere orb of day comes forth as bridegroom from his bed, Shrill chanticleer, as though it were last judgment’s trump, Calls back to consciousness the sleepers. Up they jump. The souls return their bodies to inhabit, then; Each body fraught with thoughts, and words, and deeds again. 80 The soul turned loose, without the body’s cares or ken, Attests the truth: “Sleep is death’s brother,”[90] to all men. But lest it should escape, and not come back at call, A tether to it’s bound; it’s not quite free withal.