Always Thy Book, Too Late Acknowledged Thine, Now When Thine Eyes No Earthly Page May Read; Blinded With Death, Or Blinded With The Shine Of Love'S Own Lore Celestial. Small Need, Forsooth, For Thee To Read My Earthly Line, That On Immortal Flowers Of Fancy Feed; What Should My Angel Do To Stoop To Mine, Flowers Of Decay Of No Immortal Seed. Yet, Love, If In Thy Lofty Dwelling-Place, Higher Than Notes Of Any Soaring Bird, Beyond The Beam Of Any Solar Light, A Song Of Earth May Scale The Awful Height, And At Thy Heavenly Window Find Thy Face - Know My Voice Shall Never Fall Unheard. December 6Th, 1894.