Is from the fissure where each wedged her head
From sandstorms, that hurled heavens down, as they sped;
It is no blush for thought, or conduct, base
To the high trust to bring the Human Race,
Truths, without which Time's offspring are born dead.
In spirit, they are sisters; for, beyond
The desert, where the vision, like a dove,
Soars round the palace of Almighty Love,
God hails them as "My Daughters, true and fond,
Who show man, through Noon blaze, my star above,