The Soul of Osiris

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,