Yet O my soul supreme! Knowist thou the joys of pensive thought? Joys of the free and lonesome heart, the tender, gloomy heart? Joys of the solitary walk, the spirit bow’d yet proud, the suffering and the struggle? The agonistic throes, the ecstasies, joys of the solemn musings day or night? Joys of the thought of Death, the great spheres Time and Space? Prophetic joys of better, loftier love’s ideals, the divine wife, the sweet, eternal, perfect comrade? Joys all thine own undying one, joys worthy thee O soul.