There is a spirit that sanctifies the dulness
Of those, unconscious of the charm they boast;
There is a soul, sparkling in nature’s fulness,
Which laughs at custom’s quibbles, trembling ghost;
A love there is, whose breath trembles with godhead,
Which robs the desert of the wanderer’s fears;
The inexpressible pathways it hath trod, led
By intense silence, boding o’er the years:
It will not lend its harmony to words,
Nor lower reality by visions, torn
From knowledge fitful, that but speaks to herds,
Quivering with mutual wonder, mutual scorn.
Yet love is there, and will, in time, inform
All who have passed to sunshine out of storm.