Forth thro’ the day, and barter at Life’s mart,
Yet fail to win thee home. When Truth to woo me
Comes, she arrays her in thy form; and those
Assimilate twins, Beauty and Duty, to me
Are thee and thy soft word. In toil, repose,
Asleep, awake, thy spirit whispers thro’ me;
Nor boast I hours thou dost not ope and close.
“EACH HATH THE TYPE OF BLISS WITHIN HIS THOUGHT”
Each hath the Type of bliss within his thought
That utters for him all his Life would be: