O mystic wings, upbear me lightly now,
Beyond life’s faithful labour to a seat
Where I can feel the end of things complete,
Where no hot breath of ill can scorch the brow.

O mystic wings of Art, about thee Truth
Makes atmosphere of purity and power;
‘Tis man’s breath kills the spring’s soft-petaled flower—

Ye give a refuge for the heart of youth.

Ye give a value for all loss in age,
When feebled eyes search for forgotten springs;
Ye fan the breeze that turns the moulded page,

And carry back the soul to ardent things.
Poor payment can I give, but here engage
I thee to be Love’s airy equipage.