The Secret Splendour

O secret celibate swore,

No flesh you make your sheath—

Unspent, unresting anywhere,

You spurn the conqueror's wreath

Of tremulous virgin blood.

Packed with a pure white peace

 You stand with never an earthly flicker

Spilling heaven's potencies.

 From the outward steely point

Inward to an alchemist cup

Your fluent brightness, goldening, draws

For a weakened god to sup.

 He wins from you lost strength

To cleave beyond the brain

And thrust home to the furnace-fount

Whence swords that bear no stain

Leap out in rays with a single

Centre and hilt of sun

 To pierce all things with a myriad love

Of the One for the self-same One!

3.6.54

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