THE HOLY OF HOLIES. 
103 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE PALACE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 
HE fragrant gateways of the dawn 
 Teem with the scent of flowers. 
The mother, Midnight, has withdrawn 
 Her slumberous kissing hours : 
Day springs, with footsteps as a fawn, 
 Into her rosy bowers. 
 
The pale and holy maiden horn 
 In highest heaven is set. 
My forehead, bathed in her forlorn 
 Light, with her lips is met ; 
My lips, that murmur in the morn, 
 With lustrous dew are wet. 
 
My prayer is mighty with my will ; 
 My purpose as a sword 
Flames through the adamant, to fill 
 The gardens of the Lord 
With music, that the air be still, 
 Dumb to its mighty chord. 
 
I stand above the tides of time 
 And elemental strife ; 
 
  T