The Secret Splendour

In the body's crowded city,

In the hubbub of life's town,

There is a secret palace

Where waits an empty crown.

No thought can beat its pressure,

No virtue's strong enough,

And vainly in their loves men seek

The unchallengeable stuff

Of royalty which puts it on

Like any common hat.

We strive and dream and call with words

The glorious autocrat—

But He cannot come because our speech

Has never the force to name

His splendour and both mind and heart

Burn not with a still flame

Whose tongue can taste the silences

Where dwells, unhurrying,

The Purple Mystery that needs

No crown to be a king.

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