She vanished, lost in thee, as gleam in gleam
Is lost: thou glittered'st brighter than before.
III.
Who shall ascend into thy realm, O Love?
It is a garden on a mountain steep:
From heaven it hangs, the woods, the clouds above;
Sees many rivers into ocean creep.
Round it are icy spires; that vale they guard;
But who can breathe the airs that o'er it blow?
Within it blooms the rose, and drops the nard;