And last, not least, I love sweet poetry,
The only never failing alchemy
Which turneth all it touches into gold.
So much for earth; now for exalted love!
I love, O! how I love, my future home!
Here language fails me. Eye hath never seen,
Ear has not heard, nor heart of man conceiv’d
The things that are reserved for us in Heaven!
Ye see the Christian poet is not poor;
Though bread and water all my portion be,