Songs of the Spirit

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, 103