On the Three Philosophical Poets

Falling untempered from the ethereal blue,
The light of truth might scorch the eyes, and blind.
Therefore these giant oaks their branches twined
And betwixt earth and heaven the lattice drew
Of their green labyrinth. Rare stars shone through,
Low, large, and mild. The infinite, confined,
Suffered the measure of the pensive mind,
And what the heart contrived it counted true.
Scant is that covert now in the merciless glare,
Stripped all those leafy arches, riven that dome.
Unhappy laggard, he whose nest was there.
Some yet untrodden forest be my home,
Where patient time and woven light and air
And streams a mansion for the soul prepare.
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