Hjalmar Hjorth Boyeson (1848–1895)

SUBLIME is life, though in beginnings base

At first enkindled. In this clod of mould

Beats with faint spirit-pulse the heart of gold

That warms the lily’s cheek; its silent grace

Dwells unborn ’neath this sod. Fain would I trace

The potent mystery which, like Midas’ hand,

Thrills the mean clay into refulgence grand;

For, gazing down the misty aisles of space

And time, upon my sight vast visions throng

Of the imperial destiny of man.

The life that throbbed in plant and beast ere long

Will break still wider orbits in its van,—

A race of peace-robed conquerors and kings,

Achieving evermore diviner things.