Although the Angel dwells beyond
The talisman of the skies,
Yet on this hand of dust in fond
Affection rest his eyes.

Think not upon one fashion goes
The game of lore forlorn;
Sane are the tulip and the rose
And yet their robe is torn.

The tale of passion told may be
Where the Friend sojourneth
Alone, with a lament that’s free
Of all defiling breath.

So from a star a man may clutch
The apple of its eye;
Mind is a falcon at his touch
Eager and swift to fly.

Unveil thy face; for He Who spake,
"Thou shalt not gaze on Me"
A hand of dust in view to take
Still waiteth patiently.

Who sang within the flowery mead?
Say, whence his anthem came
That lo! the rosebud hides her head,
The roses blush for shame.