When the Soul travails in her Night Obscure,
The nadir of her desperate defeat,
What heavenly dream shall help her to endure,
What flaming Wisdom be her Paraclete?
No curious Metaphysic can withhold
The heart from that mandragora she craves:—
Unreasonable, old as Earth is old,
The blind ecstatic miracle that saves.
Far off the pagan trumpeters of Pride
Call to the blood.—Love moans.—Some fiery fashion
Of rapture like the anguish of the bride
Leaps from the dark perfection of the Passion,
Crying: "O beautiful God, still torture me,
For if thou slay me, I will trust in Thee."