(a trifle)

I cannot lift my head that high
Above the jackled world of stars,
These littlest insurgents of the night,
These stones of air, and empty air,
Stacked round me like a corridor.
I see their thick green vestments drag
The golden broom of shadows past;
They bend the weeds of day and night,
Their footprints fill with waters sweet;
Above me like Olympus tongues
I hear their discourse and their songs;
But I have kobolds at my laces,
Playing their tricks and making faces;
But stallions must hostel flies,
And though I trip because my feet are tied
How blue immortal swing up there the stars!
And clouds of cygnet, snow on snow, uppiled
Like God’s internal slowly larger joy.
Something shall lift me there for aye;
I’ll walk so sure the waves shall glassen true.
His keys will rattle on our belts; the fire
Shall open, and the dawn shall too.