Doth seem to hold the very joy of God,—
Joy hid from mortal quest
Of bosky loves on silver-moonéd eves,
And the high-hearted best
That swells thy throat with joy among the leaves.
Like the Muezzin's call
From some high minaret when day is done,
Among the beeches tall
Thy voice proclaims, "There is no God but one."
And but one Beauty, too,