And, with all thy god-like genius,
This thou never canst portray!
Of the countless throng around me,
Each hath labors like to thine;
Each, methinks, some Mona Lisa
In his spirit’s inmost shrine.
Visions haunt us from our childhood
Of a love so pure, so true,
Seraphs unawares might envy
As their white wings fan the Blue;