Swing thy slow circles, Thurible, before His Face,

Nor let there one grain fall Of incense . . . for the thurible is Space,

Unstarréd Space : and this revolving ball One grain of incense in the dust of all,

That in the solemn silence no winds stir.

. . . Planets and constellations , . . these are votive myrrh And frankincense, to give sweet-scented praise And prayer, before the Stall Where lies the Lord of All.

. . . Swing thy slow circles, Thurible, before His Face.

Swing thy slow circles, Thurible, before His Feet ...

O Planets, nought save earth,

Dust shall you burn before His judgment throne

As now you burn to celebrate His birth

When all the Sons of God exult and sing for mirth.

. . . Pale streams of stars, you smoke in sacrifice Perpetually slow-rising up to Paradise Still as unwavering flame and faintly sweet,

To praise the Eternal One,

Incarnate Word, the Son. -

. . . Swing thy slow circles, Thurible, before His Feet.

Swing thy slow circles, Thurible, for Him, thy Lord,

Within Whose Hand, heaped light

The Cosmos lies : and through Whose Fingers poured

Run like fine sand the planets . . . they that write

High in black Space the message of His might

Who sleeps, half-hearing through His dreams, the Song

Rise as a tide, triumphantly and strong—

“ Stars as tall altar-tapers light With steady flame the deeps of Night,

But low in the heavens a greater shines.

Kings have found the key

Of this Mystery

In the last of all the Signs.”