No art, no learning; study, none;—but gain their end.
They polish well their bosoms, burnish bright their hearts,
Remove all stain of lust, of self, pride, hate’s deep smarts.60
That mirror’s purity prefigures their hearts’ trust;
With endless images reflections it incrust.
The formless Form the thousand thousand hidden forms
Flashed in his breast on Moses’ heart, like mirrored storms.
That Form, ’tis true, the heaven of heavens cannot contain;
Nor all the space between the zenith and the main.
These numbered are, and limited within their bounds;