And sometimes in the interim of days,
I hear a fountain in obscure abodes,
Singing with none but me to hear, the lays
That would do pleasure to the ears of gods.
And faces pass, but haply they are dreams,
Dreams of a mind set free that gilds
The solitude with awful light and builds
Temples and lovers, goblins and triremes.
Give me a chair and liberate the sun,
And glancing motes to twinkle down its bars,
That I may sit above oblivion,
And weave myself a universe of stars.
Rome, 1918
IV
Each mote that staggers down the sun
Repeats an ancient monotone
That minds me of the time when I
Put out the candles one by one,
And left no splendour on the face
Of Him who found His resting-place
Upon the Cross; and then I went
Out on the desert's empty space,
And heard the wind in monotone
Blow grains of sand against a stone,
Until I sang aloud, to break
The fear of wandering alone.
There is no fear left in my soul,
But when, to-day, an aureole
Of sunlight gathered on your hair,
And winking motes fled here and there,
Like notes of music in the air,
Suddenly I felt the wind
Wake on the desert as I stole
Out of that desecrated shrine,
And then I wondered if you sinned
As part of me, or if the whole
Dark sacrilege were mine.
Cambridge, 1917
V
He is a priest;
He feeds the dead;
He sings the feast;
He veils his head;
The words are dread
In morning mist,
But the wine is red
In the Eucharist.
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