Dear love, thou art so far above my song,
It is small wonder that it fears to rise,
Knowing it cannot reach my Paradise;
Yet ever to dwell here my thoughts among,
Nor try its upward flight, would do thee wrong.
What time the lark soars singing to the skies
We know he falters, know the sweet song dies
That fain would reach Heaven's gate sustained and strong;
But angels, bending from the shining brink,
Catch the faint note and know the poor song fails,
Having no strength to reach their heavenly height.
So listen thou, beloved, and so think.
More for the earth than heaven his song avails,
Yet sweetest heard when nearest to God's light.