|The red sun scorches up our veins;
|The white moon makes us mad;
|Pitiless stars insult our pains
|With clamour glad.
|At the foot of the Cross is the Mother of God,
|And Her tears are like rain to enliven the sod,
|While the Blood of the Lord from his Body that runs
|Is the heat of the summer, the fire of its suns.
|See where the cherubim pallid and plumed
|Swing with their thuribles praises perfumed!
|Jesus is risen and Mary assumed:
|O sorrow of pure eyes beneath
|The heavy-fringed estatic lids,
|Seeing for maiden song and wreath
|Sphinxes and pagan pyramids!
|O Mary, like a pure perfume
|Do thou receive this failing breath,
|And with Thy starry lamp illume
|The darkling corridors of death!
|But the other voice was silent, and the noise of waters swept me
|Back into the world, and I lay asleep on a hillside
|Bearing for evermore the heart of a goddess,
|And the brain of a man, and the wings of the morning
|Clipped by the shears of the silence; so must I wander lonely,
|Nor know of the light till I enter into the darkness.