He made it pure—
More pure than deep-sea water, or the dew
Distilled in mountain hollows: made it true
As heaven's o'er-arching blue,
Or as that orb that doth the main secure,—
The lonely mariner's guiding cynosure.
He made it sweet
As lover's lips that meet
For the first time, with tremulous delight;
Or as the tears that more than half requite
Their pain after long parting: made it brave,
Fearless of wind or wave;
A tameless thing with aspiration filled,
That dares where eagles may not nest, to build!