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?