Our hearts we recognize, our brains, our nerves;
But who, beside a death-bed, watching there,
Has ever seen a freed soul cleave the air?
What priest who prays? What surgeon who observes?
The soul? A myth! And such the end it serves
Have not men dreamed it, out of their despair,
For solace, in some distant otherwhere -
The good reward they feel their worth deserves?
The soul? However deep the searcher delves,
Its very nature always must conceal it;
No glass or scalpel ever shall reveal it.
Blent of God's love and man's supreme desire,
It is the essence of our inmost selves,
A flame immortal lit from God's own fire.