The Secret Splendour

Plenitude

Men call Thee bare because they fear Thy light,

The dazzle of far chastity that brings

A joy but with the whole heart void of things

 Dear to brief clay; yet grows Thy simple white

The virgin mother of each passionate tone,

Save for the mind that will not follow fast

The visionary winging of Thy Vast

Above the narrow blisses earth has known.

He whose desire from mortal love is freed

 Catches the treasure veiled in Thy pure speed

And, from the bare white, views a luxury burst:

Truth-pulsing gold to which the sun were black,

 A griefless carmine that all roses lack,

 One ample azure brimming every thirst!

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