Literature has few finer meditative poems than that written in 1871, and bearing the name “My birthday.” Not a verse of this can well be spared for those who would be in intimate contact with the poet's soul.
But still his heart was full of awe
And reverence for all sacred things;
And, brooding over form and law,
He saw the Spirit's wings I
Life's mystery wrapt him like a cloud;
He heard far voices mock his own,
The sweep of wings unseen, the loud,
Long roll of waves unknown.
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