Rare lot where reason is with fate combined,
Where envy enters not, but only love;
Thought, expectation, fancy, intertwined,
All could not fashion, that which thou dost prove:
Where then is time for jealous jarring thought
To ruffle the full transport of our heaven,
Or clog the wings of adoration fraught
With purity and hope’s exulting leaven?
Sunk in the sense of that supremest pleasure,
Here let me lose myself to live in thee;
A priceless boon, I only know to measure,
By what it costs my soul again to flee:
From heaven I fall, and this must, sure, be hell,
Earth never looked so void, I know full well.