What marvel that the soul of youth should cry, “Man builds his temples ‘tween me and the face Of Him whom I would seek; I cannot trace His purpose in their shadow, nor descry
The wisdom absolute?” What marvel that, With yearning impotent, ay, impotent Beyond all measure! his full faith was spent, And for his soul there rose no Ararat?
Yet out upon the sun-drawn sensate sea Of elemental pain, there came a word As if from Him who travelled Galilee,
As fair as any Zion ever heard. The voice of Love spoke; Love, that writes its name On Life and Death-and then my lady came.