To and fro the Genius flies, A light which plays and hovers Over the maiden's head And dips sometimes as low as to her eyes. Of her faults I take no note, Fault and folly are not mine; Comes the Genius,--all's forgot, Replunged again into that upper sphere He scatters wide and wild its lustres here. Love Asks nought his brother cannot give; Asks nothing, but does all receive. Love calls not to his aid events; He to his wants can well suffice: Asks not of others soft consents, Nor kind occasion without eyes; Nor plots to ope or bolt a gate, Nor heeds Condition's iron walls,-- Where he goes, goes before him Fate; Whom he uniteth, God installs; Instant and perfect his access To the dear object of his thought, Though foes and land and seas between Himself and his love intervene. The brave Empedocles, defying fools, Pronounced the word that mortals hate to hear-- "I am divine, I am not mortal made; I am superior to my human weeds." Not Sense but Reason is the Judge of truth; Reason's twofold, part human, part divine; That human part may be described and taught, The other portion language cannot speak. Tell men what they knew before; Paint the prospect from their door. Him strong Genius urged to roam, Stronger Custom brought him home. That each should in his house abide. Therefore was the world so wide. Thou shalt make thy house The temple of a nation's vows. Spirits of a higher strain Who sought thee once shall seek again. I detected many a god Forth already on the road, Ancestors of beauty come In thy breast to make a home. The archangel Hope Looks to the azure cope, Waits through dark ages for the morn, Defeated day by day, but unto victory born. As the drop feeds its fated flower, As finds its Alp the snowy shower, Child of the omnific Need, Hurled into life to do a deed, Man drinks the water, drinks the light. Ever the Rock of Ages melts Into the mineral air, To be the quarry whence to build Thought and its mansions fair. Go if thou wilt, ambrosial flower, Go match thee with thy seeming peers; I will wait Heaven's perfect hour Through the innumerable years. Yes, sometimes to the sorrow-stricken Shall his own sorrow seem impertinent, A thing that takes no more root in the world Than doth the traveller's shadow on the rock. But if thou do thy best, Without remission, without rest, And invite the sunbeam, And abhor to feign or seem Even to those who thee should love And thy behavior approve; If thou go in thine own likeness, Be it health, or be it sickness; If thou go as thy father's son, If thou wear no mask or lie, Dealing purely and nakedly,-- * * * Ascending thorough just degrees To a consummate holiness, As angel blind to trespass done, And bleaching all souls like the sun.