The Mother’s Tragedy

THE FATAL FORCE 59 At the fountain-heads of light; Fanned to whirling fiery flight, As the spark of life is dwindled In the sacramental span, In the star that flashes white In the body of a man; By the swart Osirian power, If, when strikes the holy hour Of the holy sacrifice, Angels swoon from starry homes Full of inexpressive eyes, That the blood that swells and foams Lighten with the fervid air, To create from death’s despair Masteries of music, domes Gilded with the splendid essence of the highest hope of man; If the sombre stream that ran From the smitten breast be kindled with the sacrificial fire: If the altar set above In the palaces of love Glow with this, the perfect passion And sublime desire From the clay of Fate to fashion His own glory, to inspire Worlds impossible to thought With the beauties, subtly wrought, Of his own creative strength. Spirit of the Gods! O single,