What marvel that the soul of youth should cry,
“Man builds his temples ‘tween me and the face
Of Him whom I would seek; I cannot trace
His purpose in their shadow, nor descry

The wisdom absolute?” What marvel that,
With yearning impotent, ay, impotent
Beyond all measure! his full faith was spent,
And for his soul there rose no Ararat?

Yet out upon the sun-drawn sensate sea
Of elemental pain, there came a word
As if from Him who travelled Galilee,

As fair as any Zion ever heard.
The voice of Love spoke; Love, that writes its name
On Life and Death-and then my lady came.