Earth proudly wears the Parthenon As the best gem upon her zone.

The hand that rounded Peter's dome, And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, Wrought in a sad sincerity, Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew, The conscious stone to beauty grew.

Out from the heart of Nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old.

Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought.

I like a church, I like a cowl, I love a prophet of the soul, And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles; Yet not for all his faith can see, Would I that cowled churchman be. Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure?

Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care.

Thou animated torrid-zone.

Pass in, pass in, the angels say, In to the upper doors; Nor count compartments of the floors, But mount to Paradise By the stairway of surprise.

Earth laughs in flowers to see her boastful boys Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs; Who steer the plough, but can not steer their feet Clear of the grave.

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun; Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk.