By Harrison Conrard

Oft I have yearned that with material eyes
An immaterial soul I might behold,
Holy and pure, with graces manifold,
Bound unto earth, yet longing thence to rise
On wings untethered through th' ethereal skies--
From its own chords of heaven-tempered gold
Unto its glorious Object clear and bold
Pouring the measures of its symphonies;
And yet, methinks, in God's own image made,
So wondrous its divine-reflected light,
That as the glooms before the sunshine fade,
Were sense corrupt to meet so pure a sight,
Perish must I before that soul, arrayed
In the warm splendors of the Infinite!

Source: The Catholic World, March, 1898.
p. 747