Chapter XIX

Faith is the master-spirit of the mind.
All else is vanity, the preacher saith;
And worldly knowledge painful is and blind.
Oh, be thyself, and trust thyself. The breath
Of God is breathed on thee. Believe, and will;
And all that thou wouldst have in life, in death,
Is thine. I heard a rustling like a rill
Upon its leafy bed--just such a sound
As tincts the shadow of a song with skill
More intricate than arabesques, and bound
With tender, faintly-flowing melodies--
But whence the choir sang, I never found.
Mayhap at last, myself may learn the ties
Wherewith are bound those lingering harmonies.