We make this life a mournful, empty dream,
And stones for bread we give;
And know not that the Soul's realities
In its Ideals live.
These are the stars that shine within its night,
The angel one it sees,
And evermore, unconsciously, it learns
Its possible from these.
There are no limits to the Real,
Save those that bound the pure Ideal.
Thine early dreams, which come like shapes of light,
Come bearing prophecy;
And nature's tongues, from leaves to quivering stars,
Teach loving faith to Thee.
Fear not to build thine eyrie on the heights
Where golden splendors lay,
And trust thyself unto the inmost Soul,
In simple faith alway:
And God will make divinely Real,
The highest forms of thine Ideal.
A man's Life is in his Love.
