Constancy to an Ideal Object

Since all, that beat about in Nature's range,     Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain     The only constant in a world of change,     O yearning THOUGHT! that liv'st but in the brain?     Call to the HOURS, that in the distance play,     The faery people of the future day     Fond THOUGHT! not one of all that shining swarm     Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath,     Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm,     Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!     Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see,     She is not thou, and only thou art she,     Still, still as though some dear embodied Good,     Some living Love before my eyes there stood     With answering look a ready ear to lend,     I mourn to thee and say, `Ah! loveliest Friend!     That this the meed of all my toils might be,     To have a home, an English home, and thee!'     Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one.     The peacefull'st cot, the moon shall shine upon,     Lulled by the Thrush and wakened by the Lark,     Without thee were but a becalmd Bark,     Whose Helmsman on an Ocean waste and wide     Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.     And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when     The woodman winding westward up the glen     At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze     The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze,     Sees full before him, gliding without tread,     An image with a glory round its head;     The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues,     Nor knows he makes the shadow, he pursues!