Whoe’er she be, That not impossible she, That shall command my heart and me. - Richard Crashaw

Let hearts and lippes speak lowd; and say
Hail, door of life: and sourse of day!
The door was shutt, the fountain seal'd;
Yet Light was seen and Life reveald.
The door was shutt, yet let in day,
The fountain seald, yet life found way.

Where’er she lie,
Locked up from mortal eye,
In shady leaves of destiny.

Souls are not Spaniards too; one friendly flood
Of baptism blends them all into a blood.
Christ's faith makes but one body of all souls,
And love's that body's soul; no law controls
Our free traffic for heav'n; we may maintain
Peace, sure, with piety, though it come from Spain.
What soul soe'er, in any language, can
Speak heav'n like hers is my soul's countryman.
Oh, 'tis not Spanish, but 'tis heav'n she speaks!
'Tis heaven that lies in ambush there, and breaks
From thence into the wond'ring reader's breast,
Who feels his warm heart hatched into a nest
Of little eagles and young loves, whose high
Flights scorn the lazy dust and things that die.