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If every rose that ever blew,
All fragrant with the breath of Spring,
Were here, aglow with sun and dew,
With ardent petals shimmering—
What would their beauty count to me,
Have I not lived to look on thee?
If every note of music born,
Each wistful cadence low and sweet,
Were all combined from night till dawn
To render melody complete—
Why should my throbbing sense rejoice
That once has listened to thy voice?
Nor do I think that Paradise
Could dim with raptured awe my gaze,
Unfolding to my dazzled eyes—
The marvel of untrodden ways;
For know I not of Heaven a part
Since I have found thy living heart?