AMBERGRIS 
51 
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, 
When, like a bad dream changing, swiftly grows 
A new soul’s joy, a fuller-petalled rose. 
 
Many the spirits broken for one man ; 
Many the men that perish to create 
One God the more ;  many the weary and wan 
Old Gods that die to constitute a Fate : 
How many Fates then, think you, must control 
The stainless aspiration of the soul ? 
 
Not one.  I tell you, destiny is sure, 
Yet moves no finger :  though it tune my tongue, 
My tongue shall tune it too :  my words endure 
As destiny decays :  my hands are flung 
In prayer to Heaven nay, to mine own crown, 
To raise myself, and not to drag it down ! 
 
O holiest Lord of the divine white flame 
Of brilliance sworded in the temple sky ! 
O thou who knowest my most secret name, 
Who whisperest when only thou and I 
Make up our universe :  bestow thy kiss : 
Arise !  Come, let us pierce the old abyss !