The Spirit of Jehovah, like a dove 
On wings of love, 
Breathe the sweet kiss, a sacrament untold, 
And clothe the heart’s desire with flames of gold. 
 
No rash Icarian wing this passion plies, 
But sanctifies, 
As if a censer (that a cherub swings) 
Blossomed with wings 
And floated up, an incense-breathing bird, 
With songs half heard 
Before the throne of God.  Even so this life 
Of sordid strife 
Is made most holy, beautiful, and pure, 
By this desire, if this desire endure. 
 
So to the altar of the Highest aspire 
Those souls whose fire 
Has on it cast one grain of pure incense, 
(Who guesses—whence ?) 
Those souls that cast their trammels off, and spring 
On eager wing, 
 
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