And thou hast oped the matrix of sweet thought,
And graven on the gem rare imagery.
Or piercing free thine arts reality,
Hast found uncarven gods, as richly wraught;
Such tints of soul, such matchless colors fraught
With all thy beings dearest phantasy;
Such fair illusive forms that luring flee,
Within the crystal web of fancy caught.
Till to thine eyes, a radiant cosmos spreads
In crystaline delight from pole to pole,
Of godly folk at play on flowry meads,
And one fair form of beauties finished whole!
Then through the golden mist one fancy threads:
It is the god of gods, thy pristine soul.