THE SEVENTH DAY 
 
“ This word ‘ love,’ which greybeards call divine, 
Be resident in men like one another 
And not in me :  I am myself alone.” 
3 Henry VI. 
 
Therefore I burnt the wicked pantacle, 
And cast my love behind me once again. 
I mused upon the mystery of pain, 
Where the Gods taught me by another spell 
Not chosen from the armoury of Hell, 
But given of Mercury to cleanse the stain 
Of the old planet :  thus I wrote me plain 
Secrets divine—tremendous, terrible ! 
 
Thus I forgot my soul and dwelt alone 
In the strong fortress of the active mind 
Whose steady flame burned eager in the night ; 
Yet was some shadow on the starry throne, 
Some imperfection playing hoodman-blind 
So that I saw not perfectly aright. 
 
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