The Secret Splendour

From Her each pore as from a womb

Is born a soul-spark richening

My consciousness of mortal gloom

With buds of an ethereal Spring.

And through that mystic blossoming

My body grows a god in whom

Each thought is a pure petalling

Star-loveliness of trance-perfume.

But though divinest dye illume

My life, it seems so poor a thing

Unless Her gift of skiey bloom

Go back to Her, feet-garlanding.

26.9.33

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