The Awakening

The Soul, of late a lovely sleeping child,

Spreads sudden wings and stands in radiant guise,

Eyed like the morn and bent upon the skies;

Her the blue gulf dismays not, nor the wild

Horizons with the wrecks of thunder piled;

The Storm has she known, and how its murmur dies

Starlike through stainless heavens she would rise

And be no more with cloudy dreams beguiled.

Was sleep not sweet? sweet till on sleeping ears

Earth's voices broke in discord. Now she hears

Far, far away diviner music move;

Nor shall her wing be sated of its flight,

Nor shall her eyes be weary of the night,

While round her sweep the singing stars of Love.