Hear thou the Voice of Fire!
This hope was Zoroaster’s—this is mine!
Not one but many splendours hath the Shrine:
Not one but many paths approach the gate
That guards the Adytum, fortifying Fate!
Mine was, by weariness of blood and brain,
Mere bitter fruit of pain
Sought in the darkness of an harlot’s bed,
To make me as one dead:
To loose the girders of the soul, and gain