That views the infinite in the finite fact.
Here moves a man, you say. What see you?—man?—
Nay, nay; that guise material fashions there
The image only of his manliness.
And you can only know his life within,
As from the image you imagine it.
Yon little girl that skips beside the porch,—
I know her, love her, not, save as I pass
Behind that face to reach a region rare
Where dolls are sentient babes, and brothers kings.