The Soul of Osiris

THE HOLY OF HOLIES. 109 With fairer melodies, and borne, alone, Aloft, to the immeasurable throne. O mighty palace of immortal stone ! O glamour of the fathomless gray snow ! O clouds ! O whirlwinds of my mountain throne ! I charge your souls to go Unto the souls of men, and bid them rise Toward redemption, and the unsullied eyes. I charge you go and whisper unto men The solemn glories of your secret mind, Making them pure, and wise ; return ye then Unto your proper kind, Having thus offered water, blood, and tears, For the remission of our carrion years. So deepen all the mountains : even so The wandering shadows close upon the day ; The sunlight burns its fading ruby glow On the chaotic way. Night falls, and I must tread the dizzy steep Again, to plunge to the devouring deep. The blessing of the Highest shall be set On your white heads, O monarchs of the snow ! The blessing of the Highest, lightening yet The burdens that ye know. So, as three golden arrows of the sun Strike, may the threefold sacrament be One !