John Weiss (1818–1879)

SUCH a noon as Thought has made!

In my soul no spot of shade;

Least and greatest lying plain,

Hope of mystery was vain.

Like a savage creature’s scent

To its game my daylight went;

Water hid beneath the sod

Sooner ’scapes divining rod.

All day staring like a noon

Sight must hie to shelter soon;

From the drooping lid must creep

Forth the outer edge of sleep.

As I lose my perfect gaze,

And the headlands gather haze,

Blushes through the clearness creep,

Showing it is also deep.

And my thought returns to me,

Like the diver from a sea,

Purpled with the shells he had,—

Tired and faint, but purple-clad.

Falls to dreaming all the sky,

Stirred by thoughts less palpably,—

Noontide broken into stars,

Vision checked by twilight bars.

Would you mystery receive,

And in miracle believe,

Wading out until some sea

Lifts the heart and sets it free,—

Then let Thought be shod with air,

Put on daylight for its wear—

Colorless and limpid laws:

In them stars and twilights pause.