And broken heart, through all the skies

And all humanity,

Seek out the single spirit, face to face,

Find it, become a conscious part of it

And know that something pure and exquisite,

Although inscrutably begun,

Surely exalts the many into one.

“I shall not lose, nor you,”

I said to Celia. Over the world the morning-dew

Moved like a hymn and sang to us: “Go now, fulfill

Your destiny and joy;

Each in the other, both in that Italian boy,

And he in you, like flowers in a hill!”

... She was the nearness of imperfect God

On whom in her perfection was at work.

Lest I should shirk

My share, I asked her for His blessing and His nod—

And His breath was in her shining hair like the wind in golden-rod.

“But, Celia, Celia, tell me what to be,”

I asked, “and what to do,

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