The Son thou sentest forth is now a Thought- br A Dream. To all but thee he is as nought br As if he had gone back into the same br Bosom that bare him. Oh, thou grey pale Dame, br With eyes so wan and wide, what! knowest thou where br Thy Dream is such a thing as doth up-bear br The earth out of its wormy place? I' the air br Dost see the very fashion of the stone br That hath his face for clay? Deep, deep, hast found br The texture of that single weight of ground br Which to each mole and mark that thou hast known br Is special burden? Nay, her face is mild br And sweet. In Heaven the evening star is fair, br And there the mother looketh for her child.