And there commune until my soul is blest.’
I said: ‘From thence my spirit seems to come,
And feel its arms to be the throne of Christ.
And this,’ I said, ‘is wrought for me by art.
Some hold that souls transmigrate after death,
But art,’ I said, ‘makes mine transmigrate here.’
For this you hear of raving. Do I err?
The soul of feeling is in thought, not so?
Then one, to feel refresh’d, must think she bathes
In rills that reach her from the freshest springs.”