Thee, me, himself? Lifts not the Heaven its dome above? Doth not the firm-set earth beneath us lie? And beaming tenderly with looks of love, Climb not the everlasting stars on high? Do we not gaze into each other’s eyes? Nature’s impenetrable agencies, Are they not thronging on thy heart and brain, Viewless, or visible to mortal ken, Around thee weaving their mysterious chain? Fill thence thy heart, how large soe'er it be; And in the feeling when thou utterly art blest, Then call it, what thou wilt, Call it Bliss! Heart! Love! God! I have no name for it! 'Tis feeling all; Name is but sound and smoke Shrouding the glow of heaven.
Margaret
All this is doubtless good and fair; Almost the same the parson says, Only in slightly different phrase.
Faust
Beneath Heaven’s sunshine, everywhere, This is the utterance of the human heart; Each in his language doth the like impart; Then why not I in mine?
Margaret
What thus I hear Sounds plausible, yet I’m not reconciled; There’s something wrong about it; much I fear That thou art not a Christian.
Faust
My sweet child!
