The Secret Splendour

Not memory's load

 But a winged power

Of Imagination sits

On that peak hour.

Not from our pale

Strengths and dim weaknesses

 Are measured the go den more,

The leaden less

Of our souls. Too poor the show

 Life makes of what we mean—

 We are judged by an apocalypse

 Of the Might-have-been,

Where love had room to grow

An angel without blur,

And every venomous spark

 A Lucifer....

An eagle of reverie,

The Summing Eye is sent

Through the large haze of what we'd do

If born omnipotent.

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