Where spirit and power are one,
Brushing dross from its splendor supernal
As dust from the eye of the sun.
All life is a poem of glory;
Neither reason nor senses can grasp,
Till we read every verse in the story,
And the hand of the author we clasp.
Then sing on sweet souls as of olden,
With visions of soul-land that shine,
Till the harp of the earthly is golden