The west builds high a sepulchre
Of cloudy granite and of gold,
Where twilight’s priestly hours inter
The day like some great king of old.
A censer, rimmed with silver fire,
The new moon swings above his tomb;
While, organ-stops of God’s own choir,
Star after star throbs in the gloom.
And night draws near, the sadly sweet—
A nun whose face is calm and fair—
And kneeling at the dead day’s feet
Her soul goes up in silent prayer.
In prayer, we feel through dewy gleam
And flowery fragrance, and—above
All Earth—the ecstasy and dream
That haunt the mystic heart of love.
ALLUREMENT
Across the world she sends me word,
From gardens fair as Falerina’s,
Now by a blossom, now a bird,
To come to her, who long has lured
With magic sweeter than Alcina’s.
I know not what her word may mean,
I know not what may mean the voices
She sends as messengers unseen,
That through the hush around me lean,
And whisper till my heart rejoices.
Soon must I go. I must away.
Must take the path that is appointed.
God grant I reach her realm some day,
Where by her love, as by a ray,
My soul shall be anointed.