Such an one, with intellects abased, have I noted crouching to the dwarf,
Whilst his lovers scorn the fool, whose beauty hath departed!
And there is a beauty for the spirit; mind in its perfect flowering,
Fragrant, expanded into soul, full of love and blessed.
Go to some squalid couch, some famishing death-bed of the poor;
He is shrunken, cadaverous, diseased;—there is here no beauty of the body:
Never hath he fed on knowledge, nor drank at the streams of science,
He is of the common herd, illiterate;—there is here no beauty of the reason:
But lo! his filming eye is bright with love from heaven,
In every look it beameth praise, as worshipping with seraphs;