The Sunlight That Makes Of The Heaven A Pathway For Sylphids To Throng; The Wind That Makes Harps Of The Forests For Spirits To Smite Into Song, Are The Image And Voice Of A Vision That Comforts My Heart And Makes Strong. I Look In One'S Face, And The Shadows Are Lifted: And, Lo, I Can See, Through Windows Of Evident Being, That Open On Eternity, The Form Of The Essence Of Beauty God Clothes With His Own Mystery. I Lean To One'S Voice, And The Wrangle Of Living Hath Pause: And I Hear Through Doors Of Invisible Spirit, That Open On Light That Is Clear, The Radiant Raiment Of Music In The Hush Of The Heavens Sweep Near.