S.H.W.

What are the years? Fleet phantoms of a dream 
That veils the ethereal present—things that seem 
But vanish with the seeming. We redeem 
     Our souls from bondage when we leap the bar 
     Of time, to dwell in some unsetting star,
Where sense dissolves to soul in its clear beam!
So have I seen, beholding One,—alone 
     Of all my Pantheon, —whose obedient clay 
     Half hovers, half intent to float away 
On the white wings we almost see upthrown.

Beholding still her buoyant spirit flit
     From theme to theme as lightly as a bee, 
     Shedding their golden fruit-dust lavishly:—
Watching the swift heat-lightnings of her wit, 
That flash innocuous o'er all hearts, to hit, 
     Injustice with barb'd fire; the while we see 
     The subtlest hues of her winged poesy 
Gleaming more weirdly, by slant glories lit 
Of the warm westering sun:—in faith sublime 
     We are uplifted, even as she, to scorn 
The insubstantial pageantry of time—
     The noisy years gone dead when scarcely born-
In the young life-light of her soul know we 
The palsied century has grown old not she!