Now art thou beautiful, thou child of light!
Now with thy hair tossed back and figure still;
I drink thy beauty with a raptured sight —
I drink till soul and senses it doth fill;
O do not move, but sit forever so,
And let me gaze, and never, never go!

So bright, bright as the morn, thou breathest there;
Unconscious as the rose, or golden-rod,
How things so beautiful do upward bear
The soul into the very airs of God!
O angel golden-haired, unknown to thee,
Thy presence to such heights hath lifted me!