Man
O, grand and worshipful that being man,
As fashioned by a maiden’s dream-lit mind!
To her, his soul has nobleness enshrined—
’Tis pure—Love’s altar-place, where God began,
’Neath Eden’s flow’ry groves, the household plan.
In rose-mist wreathed, by sweet enchantment blind,
How oft she’s worshiped, wedded, but to find
The real, no more her dream, than piping Pan.
Some “noble deeds” bear cold ambition’s stain,
And chaff is found among Love’s golden grain.
’Tis well the rose-mist lifts and clearer beams
Show man’s real self, e’en tho’ it give her pain,
Else, so idolatrous, she might, it seems,
Forget her God, if he were all she dreams.