All things are Hers.
Concealed or manifest, Found or unfound,
Her Spirit lives in each—Dumb till the Master-Soul its secret guessed And gave its silence speech.
All things are Hers.
She is the Crystal Queen Of all men’s vision, and the moving
Which through the greyness of the sordid scene Gloweth and quickeneth.
She is the flower-maid of the dreaming noon, The goddess of the temple of the night;
Where the berg-turrets gleam beneath the moon She builds Her throne of white.
She knows the Battle-Hymn of mighty wars When wind and ocean thunder on the strand.
She knows the song the lonely river-bars Sing to the listening land.
Armoured and helmeted and spurred for fight She fires men’s hearts to right the bitter wrong;
Yet sits She weaving of a summer night Flowers of a bridal song.
She gives the temper that has made men great And fashioned heroes out of common clay,
And welded firm into a mighty State The tribes of yesterday.
Youth’s radiant vision, and the dreamy dawn Of the soft lovelight in a maiden’s eyes,
And holiest joys of motherhood, are drawn By Her from Paradise.
She knows the Wheel-Song of the Stars that run Their glittering courses through the blue abyss.
Ere the round earth fell flaming from the sun Her spirit was, and is.
She is the Phoeix, ever making true The dim tradition of the misty morn.
The crucible of science gives anew Her fairy form re-born.
All things are Hers—but not with equal word Dowers She the pilgrims of the sacred shrine.
Only the Great Interpreters have heard Her melodies divine.
All things are Hers, and so to Her I bring Songs of the dreams that haunt me on my way—I who scarce hear the rustle of Her wing Borne on the wind away!
