Songs of the Spirit

When the gates of spirit tense with angel’s tread Close, and all the gates of sense swing wide instead, When the will of men is sleeping, and when the mind Hears no sobs of spirits weeping above the wind, All the subtle paths are clear for wicked breath, And no angel warns the ear that this is death ? Is this fiend the Love that came when youth rose up Purple with its holy flame, and flower-fair cup, Gave me of his burning wine to fire my heart, Filled me with desires divine toward my art ? Is he then the Love who robs me of my aim, Doubts me if my heart still throbs with that cold flame, Calm and eager purpose yet to reach the goal That high hopes have sternly set before my soul, To know, will, dare for man’s sake if man may, Grasp the secret of the plans that rule the way Of stars and suns, that shape the tiniest blade Of Grass whose frailties ’scape the passing maid, Whose light foot brushes fern and moss ? But Love Comes a thief to men who turn toward things above 61