Sweeter than music of the choral spheres,
The unwritten words that soothed the Magdalene.
Perchance on Jesus’ bosom he may lean,
A deeper sense than language can impart
Lies in the throbbing of that wondrous heart.
The moon went down, the night grew dark and dense,
The aspiration of my soul intense
Took real form and garb, or so it seemed,
And bore me on to all that I had dreamed.
Into the narrow dungeon where I lay