To its own sphere, where night afar is driven,
As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings,
So must love mount to heaven!
Vainly it shall not strive
There on weak words to pour a stream of fire;
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give,
As light might wake a lyre.
And oh! its blessings there,
Shower’d like rich balsam forth on some dear head,
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear,