A PHANTOM to me thou appearest
But, spite of this seeming, I know,
The magical image thou wearest
Is real as the lilies in blow-

Is as real and as fair as the fairest of all our fair lilies in blow.


Not alive to the senses external
Of hearing, the touch, or the sight;
Not aught that would yield to the carnal
Desire, a delusive delight;

But alive to the spirit art thou and a star to its path day night.


Not alive to the outer, but inner
Keen sense of the spirit; and when
I'm from the world and its din or
Low chat of most women and men,

I'm mantled thro' thee in a glory, no pencil could portray, nor pen.


Then lifted on Rapture's bright pinions
I tread the bright zones of the Blest;
I enter the azure dominions
Of those who have long been at rest

From turmoil, the strife, the opinions, by which here the Good are
opprest.


Away o'er the gold-crested mountains,
I hie, light of foot as the roe;
I drink of the pellucid fountains
That flow in the valleys below,

And swiftly both valleys and mountains with the deepest
significance glow.


Then see I expressed in those valleys;
Then see I enthroned in those hills;
In dew-adorned daffodowndillies,
And daisies that bloom by the rills-

I see one vast Soul, and that all is but what that inherent Soul wills.


Then see I-But what serves the vision
Of music-souled bard, seer, or sage,
When Bigotry, Self, Superstition,
Unite their fell forces to wage

A war upon Truth? Truth divine! and when Learning would fetter
the age!


What, what would it be to the nations
Did I give what I'd give for Love's sake?
Would they hark to the blest revelations
I'd deem it my duty to make?

They'd say I had drank of a potion should doom me to dungeon or
stake.


Yet freely this much may be spoken,
That when from her dungeon of clay
-A bird from its fetterlet broken-
The soul to the spheres wings away,

We find where go not a token of what our learned bigots portray.


There find we in joy or in sorrow
No day without night, as we're told;
No, no night on which dawneth no morrow;
But the scrolls of the past are unroll'd,

And we see, as if shown in a mirror, each fact there is there to
unfold.


On all can be seen by the spirit
Around us, above, or below;
Nay even the homes we inherit,
Are graced or defaced, gloom or glow

With merit, our merit, demerit; our joy or shame, glory or woe.


Not in dead pictures merely, but living
Bright symbols our deed speak and move;
And we see with the gifts we have given,
In the God-enshrined spirit of love,

The least of our sins, tho' forgiven, can never be cancelled Above.


There see we the unborn Hereafter,
From out the live Present is born;
That laughers are reft of their laughter,
The mask from the masker is torn;

The crafty are whipt by their craft and the scorner is met by his
scorn.


We learn this, but learn too, whatever
The strength and the hue of our creed,
A good deed's a good deed, and never
Can other be than a good deed;

That Destiny's self cannot sever nor keep from the worthy their
meed.


To clear-sighted psychist is granted
All this and things deeper to know,
That in accents of fire should be chanted
To creed-ridden mortals below,

Could feelings by which I am haunted, be taught in bright numbers
to flow.


But of this I despair; and I wander
With one, once a mortal, to find
The marvels we see, and their grandeur
Can never be shown to mankind,

Till each for himself's learned to ponder, and feel the sad fact, he
is blind.