by Eugene Lee-Hamilton
Thy beauty has swooped down upon my soul;
Thou hast me in the talons of thy love,
And hold'st me in the dizziness above,
High o'er the cloud, high o'er the thunder's roll.
The world is like the hillock of a mole,
Scarce visible, where others breathe and move.
Alone in the great sky through which we clove,
We seem to be the universal whole.
Night closes round. The burning stars flame out,
Intolerably many, and yet more;
And crimson meteors whirl in ceaseless rout;
I see the earth no longer as we soar—
New moons, new suns, surround us all about,
As still we rise; and, blinded, I adore.
Last updated January 11, 2018