Songs of the Spirit

Thine was the passionless divine High hope, and the pure purpose thine, Higher and purer than stars shine, And thine the unexpressed delight To hold high commune with the wind That sings, in midnight black and blind, Strange chants, the murmurs of the mind, To grasp the hands of heaven and find the lords of light. Mine was the holy fire that drew Its perfect passion from the dew, And all the flowers that blushed and blew On sunny slopes by little brooks. Mine the desire that brushed aside The thorns, and would not be denied, And sought, more eager than a bride, The cold grey secrets wan and wide of sacred books. Thine was the hand that guided me By moor and mountain, vale and lea, And led me to the sudden sea That lies superb, remote, and deep, vi