That Whisper Takes The Voice Of A SpirIt's Compassionings Close, But Invisible, And Throws Me Under A Spell At The Kindling Vision It Brings; And For A Moment I Rejoice, And Believe In Transcendent Things That Would Mould From This Muddy Earth A Spot For The Splendid Birth Of Everlasting Lives, Whereto No Night Arrives; And This Gaunt Gray Gallery A Tabernacle Of Worth On This Drab-Aired Afternoon, When You Can Barely See Across Its Hazed Lacune If Opposite Aught There Be Of Fleshed Humanity Wherewith I May Commune; Or If The Voice So Near Be A Soul'S Voice Floating Here.