These strewn thoughts, by the mountain pathway sprung, I conned for comfort, till I ceased to grieve, And with these flowering thorns I dare to weave The crown, great Mother, on thine altar hung. Teach thou a larger speech to my loosed tongue, And to mine opened eyes thy secrets give, That in thy perfect love I learn to live, And in thine immortality be young. The soul is not on earth an alien thing That hath her life's rich sources otherwhere; She is a parcel of the sacred air. She takes her being from the breath of Spring, The glance of Phoebus is her fount of light, And her long sleep a draught of primal night.