“I catch it, Norman,” cried she, “the ideal!
Henceforth our aim be this,—the art of life.
I saw it not before: the stage of spirit
So much more broad is than the stage of sense!
Comes on the soul now, actor, all divine,
At play no longer; nay, but shadowing forth
A love complete that personates a God!
And what love is complete that walks alone?”
“None,” answer’d I. “In true love, hand in hand,
Each leads his like. For this the whole world waits.