By George Sterling

Turn thy soul's eye on all the forms that are
    And thou shalt see them but as shade and form,
    Hiding an essence fathomless. The storm
Of atoms, and the sun's effulgent car,
Are but as veils and an uplifted bar
    Between thyself and verity. The warm,
    Assuring day, the stars' investing swarm,
Are darkness, and the mind alone a star—

An orb delivered to the night, and fain
To test the paths of timelessness, or gain
    Some dim surmise of an authentic goal,—
        Some rumor from the council of its lords,
    In moments when the unaccepted soul
        Glimpses the far-off splendor of their swords.

Bibliography Entry