The cravings of immortal mind;
Earth, thou hast nothing pure and high,
The soaring, struggling soul to bind.
Impatient of its long delay,
The pinioned spirit fain would roam,
And leave this crumbling house of clay,
To seek, above, its own bright home!
. . . . . . . . . .
O, how mysterious is the bond
Which blends the earthly with the pure,