Out of the depths of the long hush that then Followed between those midnight travellers, Emerging, like a diver of the sea That brings up dripping pearl from sunken cave And, gladdened, lifts it flashing to the sun, So, to his young companion speaking, Paul-- Not turning while he spoke his countenance Toward him, but fixed right forward keeping it, Intent, as on an object not of sight, Before him held with unmaterial hand, An unmaterial treasure passing price, Imagined fair by the creating soul-- Said, with such cheerful rally in the voice As one invites with, some delight to share: "Wilt thou hear, Stephen? I have been revolving In form a kind of hymn concerning love, Which, in a letter, some twelve months ago, I wrote the church in Corinth. There was need, For they were sore at strife among themselves, Vying with one another to outdo In divers showy gifts miraculous, Or outward deeds that daze the eyes of men: Tongues, prophecies, the keys of mysteries, High knowledges, sublime degrees of faith, Almsgivings to impoverishment, stout heart To brave devouring flames in testimony-- All these things, but for lowly love small care! "My soul was worn and anxious with my pain At such distractions of the church of Christ; I found my peace at last in this thought, 'How Love would heal all, would gently join from schism, And in one bind the body of the Lord!' A wish ineffable seized me to make Love lovely to those loveless ones. I had, With the wish born, and of the wish perhaps, A sudden vision that entranced me quite. I saw love take a body beautiful And live and act in most angelic wise; It was as if a heavenly spectacle Let down before me by a heavenly hand-- Not to be viewed with unanointed eyes; I touched my eyes with eyesalve and beheld. Then a Voice said, 'What thou beholdest, write.' I took my pen and sought to catch the grace Of being and behavior shown to me, And fix it, as I could, in form and phrase, For those Corinthians and all men to see. A living picture, and a hymn, there grew. "Hymn I may call my eulogy of love, Then written, for indeed it seemed to sing Within me, as I mused it, and the tune Still to the hearing of my heart is sweet. I felt, and feel, a kind of awe of it, Myself that made it, for I did not make It wholly, I myself, I know quite well; A breath divine, breathed in me, purified My will to will it, and my soul to sing.