But hard the task I undertake,
With mortal tongue to reach
The utterance of my Love, and make
Her high immortal meaning break
To clearness through my speech!
I can no more, with glimmering trope
That into darkness runs,
Reveal its depth, than they could hope,
Who on in lifelong blindness grope,
To sing of rising suns.
“Or e’er that life my King had lent
Was lifted into rest,
His message through my lips He sent,
And on thy path His glory went
To guide thee to the blessed.
“But thou didst turn thy face, and scorn
His grace divine as nought;
And set thy gaze to earth forlorn,
And rage at fate, till gaunt and worn,
Death mouldered in thy thought.
“Thou, blindly gross, didst toy with clay,
And in the ghastly gleam
Of charnel gloom didst kiss decay;
And many full moons waned away,
And left thee in thy dream.
“For with thy Lily’s worldly dress
Thou didst thine eyesight fill;
And scorn to know its loveliness
Were but an empty boast unless
Made living by His will.
“Thou mourn’dst not most the vanished soul
Which was my Lord’s through thine;
But more the broken pleasure-bowl,
Whose golden richness shed, when whole,
Its splendour in thy wine.
“And therefore living wert thou made
To taste the cup of death;
And therefore did the glory fade,
From guidance into deadly shade
That iced thy shuddering breath.