Harold
Monro .
He is
that
one Desire , that
life , that
breath ,
That Soul which, with
infinity
of
pain ,
Passes
through
revelation
and
through
death
Onward
and
upward
to
itself
again .
Out of
the lives of heroes and their
deeds ,
Out of
the miracle
of human
thought,
Out
of
the
songs of singers, God
proceeds ;
And
of the soul of
them
his Soul
is wrought.
Nothing
is lost :
all
that
is
dreamed
or
done
Passes
unaltered
the
eternal way
,
Immerging
in
the everlasting
One
,
Who
was the
dayspring
and who
is
the day
.
Joscelyn
.
Good
poet
,
cease
,
and
quaff
some
ale
with me
.
John
.
You
have not
said
who
raised me
from
the
sod
.
Henry
.
Your
speech
is
rank
and hellish
blasphemy
.
Caspar
.
Nay
,
nay
,-
and
yet
it
surely
is
not God
.
Andrea
.
It's
God
perchance
—
but
of
some
other
nation
.
Dives
.
It's
nothing
better
than
a
poet
's
dream
.
Lazarus
.
It
is
not Christ
.
Lazarillo
.
It's
empty
declamation
.
Prout
.
It's
harmless
fustian
–
'
tis
how
matters
seem
.
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