A secret ‘tis, ‘tis evident
(Thou sayst) this world of hue and scent:
Go, strike thyself upon its wire–
Thou art the plectrum, it the lyre.

The gaze disclosed in ecstasy
Trembles to view its purity,
And yet thou sayst it is a veil.
A covering, a thing unreal!

Pull down the pole of the immense
That struts heaven’s cerulean tents,
For like a spark it naked lies
Before the contemplative eyes.

High Paradise is not so fair
As this clay garment that I wear;
Within this sanctuary of mine
Is holy fire, and joy divine.

I lose myself a little time,
I lose awhile the great sublime,
The twain discovering presently–
O miracle, O mystery!