Life I adore, and not Life's accidents.
A garlanded and dream-fast thurifer
My Soul comes out from beauty's purple tents
That incense-troubled Love may grieve and stir,
Be ransomed from satiety's sad graves,
And go to God up the bright stair of Wonder.
Since passion makes immortal Time's tired slaves
I am of those that delicately sunder
Corruptions of contentment from the breast
As with rare steel. Like music I unveil
Last things, till, weary of earthen cups and rest,
You seek Montsalvat and the burning Grail.
Ah! blindly, blindly, wounded with the roses,
I bear my spice where Ecstasy reposes.