The poem
The splendour of the kindling day, The splendor of the setting sun, These move my soul to wend its way, And have done With all we grasp and toil amongst and say.
The paling roses of a cloud, The fading bow that arches space, These woo my fancy toward my shroud, Toward the place Of faces veil'd, and heads discrown'd and bow'd.
The nation of the awful stars, The wandering star whose blaze is brief, These make me beat against the bars Of my grief; My tedious grief, twin to the life it mars.
O fretted heart toss'd to and fro, So fain to flee, so fain to rest! All glories that are high or low, East or west, Grow dim to thee who art so fain to go.