If thou hadst been a painter, what fresh looks, What outbursts of pent glories, what new grace Had shone upon us from the great world's face! How had we read, as in eternal books, The love of God in loneliest shiest nooks! A lily, in merest lines thy hand did trace, Had plainly been God's child of lower race! And oh how strong the hills, songful the brooks! To thee all nature's meanings lie light-bare, Because thy heart is nature's inner side; Clear as, to us, earth on the dawn's gold tide, Her notion vast up in thy soul did rise; Thine is the world, thine all its splendours rare, Thou Man ideal, with the unsleeping eyes!