Like thine own Album, which lies here before me,
Life is a volume. Sweetly some are writ
In sanctity; as when mild Guido's pencil
Portrays some Sybil-saint—her eye upturned
On Seraph-teacher—with whose word her pen
Moves in accord. All such with record stored
Of heavenward aspirations, and, not less,
Of earthly loves and charities—as holy—
Each stain—if stain there be from the world's handling—
Cleansed from their pages, shall librarian Spirits
Hang on celestial shelves; thence oft perused
By higher natures, not unpleased to learn
Of this our nether sphere.

Beloved friend!
Who for thyself still doubtest—still the more
For those meek doubts—Thy volume shall be there.