THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 
17 
One sonnet-thought, the metre cannot die 
 But urges, but compels me to compose 
 More and still more, and still my spirit goes 
Striving up glittering steeps of symphony. 
 
There is an angel who is guardian. 
 Surely her wings are rosy, and her feet 
Black as the wind of frost ;  but oh !  her face ! 
Whoso may know it is no more a man, 
 But walks with God, and sees the Lady sweet 
Whose body was the vehicle of grace. 
 
III. 
Eternal beauty in eternal truth, 
 Isis !  And Thoth, the scribe of destiny, 
 And Mary’s excellent virginity ! 
Ye are the witness of the ageless youth 
That crowns the sonnet.  In your wondrous eyes 
 Lie hidden all the secrets of the world, 
 And as the lightning of your look is hurled 
So glean I something of life’s harmonies. 
 
Look then upon me !  Let my insight pierce 
The clouds of this material universe 
 Unto your splendour that no mortal eye 
May see and live.  Even so, how small the price ! 
My soul accepts its own sweet sacrifice : 
 Let me but strike one perfect chord—and die.