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CHILDHOOD.
I cannot reach it; and my striving eye
Dazzles at it, as at eternity.
Were now that chronicle alive,
Those white designs which children drive,
And the thoughts of each harmless hour,
With their content too in my power,
Quickly would I make my path even,
And by mere playing go to heaven.
* * * * *
An age of mysteries! which he
Must live twice that would God's face see;
Which angels guard, and with it play--
Angels which foul men drive away.
How do I study now, and scan
Thee more than e'er I studied man,
And only see, through a long night,
Thy edges and thy bordering light!
O for thy centre and mid-day!
For sure that is the narrow way!
Many a true thought comes out by the help of a fancy or half-playful
exercise of the thinking power. There is a good deal of such fancy in the
following poem, but in the end it rises to the height of the purest and
best mysticism. We must not forget that the deepest man can utter, will
be but the type or symbol of a something deeper yet, of which he can
perceive only a doubtful glimmer. This will serve for general remark upon
the mystical mode, as well as for comment explanatory of the close of the
poem.
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