THESE wild effusions of a stricken soul,

Life of my life, I dedicate to thee.

I think I saw thee bodily but once,

Yet in my spirit ever, and sometimes

Embodied in the vision of a dream:—

Strange sounds of strange and moving melody,

The passion of the viol's quivering string,

The high sublimity of organ tones,

Remind me of thee strangely.

I almost think I knew thee long ago,

When present was not present, past not past,

And in a multitude of earthly forms

I sought to see thy beauty visible.

All that is beautiful upon the earth

Is but an image, though so faint, of thee.

Lo, I have sought thee—I have not found thee.