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His silence is his signature to her deeds; In the execution of her drama's scheme, In her fancies of the moment and its mood, In the march of this obvious ordinary world Where all is deep and strange to the eyes that see And Nature's common forms are marvel-wefts, She through his witness sight and motion of might Unrolls the material of her cosmic Act, Her happenings that exalt and smite the soul, Her force that moves, her powers that save and slay, Her Word that in the silence speaks to our hearts, Her silence that transcends the summit Word, Her heights and depths to which our spirit moves, Her events that weave the texture of our lives And all by which we find or lose ourselves, Things sweet and bitter, magnificent and mean, Things terrible and beautiful and divine. Her empire in the cosmos she has built, He is governed by her subtle and mighty laws. His consciousness is a babe upon her knees, His being a field of her vast experiment, Her endless space is the playground of his thoughts; She binds to knowledge of the shapes of Time And the creative error of limiting mind And chance that wears the rigid face of fate And her sport of death and pain and Nescience, His changed and struggling immortality. His soul is a subtle atom in a mass, His substance a material for her works. His spirit survives amid the death of things, He climbs to eternity through being's gaps, He is carried by her from Night to deathless Light. This grand surrender is his free-will's gift, His pure transcendent force submits to hers. In the mystery of her cosmic ignorance, In the insoluble riddle of her play, 
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