O mother, only,

where that thou hidest thee,

crown for the lonely brow,

bosom for the spent wanderer,

or balm for ache:

O mother,

nightly —

undiscoverable —

O heart too vast to find,

whelming our little desire:

we wander and fail —

But on the zenith, mass’d, a glittering throng,

the distant stars dropt a disdainful song: