The delicate, high and gentle yoke of Christ Be on my fierce blood and my wandering feet, The myrrh of His pure tears be far more sweet Than the world’s honey luxuriously spiced;

I saw the dawn ascending like a queen Beyond the mountains and the desert sand,

But, lo, she was but light shed from His hand, Born of that awful Effluence serene.

The mice and coneys of the wilderness Were of His family, the spine-stemmed flowers Chaliced His glory within purple veils;

The intolerable weight of loneliness

Was peopled with His Whisper, the cold hours

Of midnight chanted how His Love prevails.

Wilfred Childe.