The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream’s bosom, or a sculptured form,
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow’d its head o’er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops
Under bright rain. But we, my child, are here
With God, our God, a Spirit, who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge—deep, rich, vast enough
To fill and hallow all the solitude—