But who knows Nature, Truth, Beauty divine,
(Three varying names of one unswerving Love),
Speechless will worship, and attend the trine:
The critic hawk shall own the stronger dove;
For, admiration glows with brighter flame,
Than but to light the judgment to his prey;
And it was ever Love’s most glorious shame,
He could not analyze, nor mutter nay:
Enough, that beauty lives in clouds of colour,
In forest, ocean, mountain, forms and faces;
Why wrest these proofs, to hints and motes of dolour,
To impose some sense that shrouds what it defaces?
How vain is man, who deems his weak conceits
Of better worth than Nature’s utmost heats.