THE HOLY OF HOLIES. 
121 
And shroud all earth in masterless eclipse, 
 While my heart’s murmur through thy being flows, 
To carry up the prayer, as incense teems 
Skyward, to those immeasurable streams ! 
 
Breathe the creative Sign upon my mouth 
 That even the body may become the soul : 
Cry, as the chained Eagle of the South, 
 “ A house of death,” and make my spirit whole ! 
Touch with pure balm the five mysterious wounds ! 
Come !  come away !  but not your mighty sounds ! 
 
O wind of all the world !  O silent river ! 
 O sea of seas !  O flower of all the flowers ! 
O fire !  O spirit !  Beam thou on for ever 
 Through æons of illimitable hours ! 
Kiss thou my forehead, let thy tender breath 
Woo me to life, and my desire to death ! 
 
I shall be ready for it by-and-by, 
 That sharp initiation, when the whole 
Body is torn with sundering pangs, and I, 
 The very conscious essence of the soul, 
Am rent with agony, as when the pale 
Christ heard the shriek of the dividing veil. 
 
That awful mystery, its heart torn out, 
 Palpitates on the altar-stone of life : 
That broken self, that hears the triumph-shout 
 Of its own voice beneath the falling knife,