From whom, long listening through ecstatic hours,
Men seek a spiritual mutilation
And guidance to the unperturbed serene,
Yours was the voice at which our grasping hands
Refrained from clutching at iniquity
Still warm with flame that licks the roof of hell,
But having will of us you are transfigured
With an attractive aureole whose glare
Is colder than a mist around the moon;
Wherefore in wisdom meditate on this