Who hath seen joy, or who shall ever find
Joy’s language? There is neither speech nor word;
Nought but itself to teach it to mankind.
Scarce in our twenty thousand painful days
We may touch something: but there lives—beyond
The best of art, or nature’s kindest phase—
The hope whereof our spirit is fain and fond:
The cause of beauty given to man’s desires,
Writ in the expectancy of starry skies,
The faith which gloweth in our fleeting fires,