The sunlight, that makes of the heaven
A pathway for sylphids to throng;
The wind, that makes harps of the forests
For spirits to smite into song,
Are the image and voice of a vision
That comforts the heart and makes strong.
I look in one’s face, and the shadows
Are lifted; and, lo, I can see,
Through windows of evident being,—
Filled full of eternity,—
The form of the essence of Beauty
God garments with mystery.
I hearken one’s voice, and the wrangle
Of living hath pause: and I hear,
Through doors of invisible spirit,—
Filled full of God’s light that is clear,—
The radiant raiment of Music,
In the hush of the heavens, sweep near.