The Secret Splendour

Soul of poet, he thou quiet

Like an ageless wood-dream royal-pined,

Yielding all thy chorded hush

Unto the epic fingers of His wind.

Soul of poet, merge thy quiet

 With the moon's eternal mystery,

Rousing by uplifted calm

A hierophantic rapturous song-sea.

Soul of poet, thine be quiet

Of the Virgin when the deathless morn

Flashed from heaven clove time's veil

And in her tranceful womb the Word was born.

11.9.33

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