XIV
Take from an urn my vow and salutation
Unto the land I never now shall see:
Laid here exiled, my heart in desolation
Frets like a child against her breast to be.
Far from the sky, a rose that opes at even
(One liquid star for dewdrop on the rose),
Far from the shower that nesting low in heaven
Thrice in an hour light-wingèd comes and goes,
Far from my lost and blessèd and belovèd
Nightfall of June beside the Rhodian wave,
Mine is the pain another isle to covet,
Though all in vain, for gardener of my grave.
XV
Praise thou the Mighty Mother for what is wrought, not me,
A nameless nothing-caring head asleep against her knee.
[Deo Optimo Maximo]
All else for use, One only for desire;
Thanksgiving for the good, but thirst for Thee:
Up from the best, whereof no man need tire,
Impel Thou me.
Delight is menace if Thou brood not by,
Power a quicksand, Fame a gathering jeer.
Oft as the morn (though none of earth deny
These three are dear),
Wash me of them, that I may be renewed,
And wander free amid my freeborn joys:
Oh, close my hand upon Beatitude!
Not on her toys.