O’er sorrows wounds, where’er her footsteps led.
There had arisen from all created things
An anthem and an incense, and they came,
Rousing in her own breast those hidden springs,
With a mysterious power, that she might name
Fragrance, or motion, beauty, light, or tone —
So seemed each exquisite sense to blend in one.
“O, life is bliss!” she murmured. “Let each breath
Rise with a warm thank-offering from my heart
To Him who gave it; the blue heavens beneath,