Under the turf the blind mole creeps,
And moulds the mounds of molehill kind.
Above, the skylark soars and sweeps,
The song is swept upon the wind.
To-morrow's eyes the mounds may see;
To-morrow they will mark the plain.
But none shall hear the ecstasy
Of song, that cannot be again.
Well built, old mole! A little heap
To linger to a later day!
Something to show you once did creep
In darkness through your earthy way.
Yet with the lark's glad song of Love
May mine on wandering winds be hurled,
In happy regions far above
The dull mad molehills of the world.
Still let my song be all in all,
Though Earth-born discords soon destroy,
And on no mortal ear may fall
The music of immortal joy.
Break, Spirit, break to boundless things
Beyond the molehill and the clod,
And catch the glory of the strings
That tune the harmonies of God.