There is naught in the pathless reach 
Of the pale, blue sky above, 
There is naught that the stars tell, each to each, 
As over the heavens they rove; 
That I have not felt, or have not seen 
Clad in dull earth or fancy's sheen.

There is naught, in the still, mauve twilight 
When the dreams come flitting by, 
From lands afar of eternal night, 
Or lands of the sunswept sky, 
For countless spirits within me dwell 
With heaven's efflugence or dark hell.