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If every rose that ever blew,

All fragrant with the breath of Spring,

Were here, aglow with sun and dew,

With ardent petals shimmering —

What would their beauty count to me,

Have I not lived to look on thee?

If every note of music born,

Each wistful cadence low and sweet,

Were all combined from night till dawn

To render melody complete —

Why should my throbbing sense rejoice

That once has listened to thy voice?

Nor do I think that Paradise

Could dim with raptured awe my gaze,

Unfolding to my dazzled eyes —

The marvel of untrodden ways;

For know I not of Heaven a part

Since I have found thy living heart?