Working as erst by law, not miracle,
By genius God doth lift a common soul
To some still spot where it may glimpse the goal;
Bidding it on the mountain heights to dwell,
Yet not so far apart but it may tell
To toilers in the plain below the whole
Of the vision. Master, still the organ-roll
Of thy deep music vibrates, and its spell
Aids the uplift that stirs our grosser clay
To rise and seek the heights. O soul God set
A little lower than his white angels, yet
A round for man to climb the starward way
Thou art. One palm with angels' long since met,
The other warm in man's grasp still doth stay.
