II
Under my feet, O Death,
Under my trembling feet!
Back, through the gates of hell, now give me way.
I come.—I bring new Breath!
Over the trampled shards of mine own clay,
That smoulder still, and burn,
Lo, I return!
Hail, singing Light that floats
Pulsing with chorused motes:—
Hail to thee, Sun, that lookest on all lands!
And take thou from my weak undying hands,
A precious thing, unblemished, undefiled:—
Here, on my heart uplift,
Behold the Gift,—
Thy glory and my glory, and my child!