Interlude

HARRY I. HUNT

Man , the most precious image of his God,
His being for immortal glory wrought,
Yet seems to mortal sense sprung from the clod,
Robed in earth's clouding mists of erring thought.

What is this seeming life we live as clay—
This strange unlikeness in its finitude?
What is this brief, unlovely, earthy day?
A lull in Life's sweet song, an interlude

In which the cadence of Mind's flowing theme
Seems hushed amid the jarring senses' lot;
The golden thread of melody serene
Seems cruelly severed, and the song forgot?

This interlude does not to man belong:
'T is but a false note of that mortal sense
Which seems to silence heaven's ceaseless song;
This interlude is mortal ignorance

Of the rhythmic theme of Mind's eternal strain,
Which fills the circle of infinity.
'T is ours to join aloud in this refrain,
When we lay hold of man's divinity.

So shall we rise at length out of the mists
Of matter, and take up, in glad release,
The melody of Life in which persists
Love's everlasting strain of joy and peace.

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