Holy of holies Confessions of an anarchist [by J. E. Barlas] |
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XVI.
[My soul is like a marsh, a fenny swamp]
My soul is like a marsh, a fenny swamp,That breeds dull fogs which hide thee from my sight:
My own heart's effluence vile shuts out thy light;
My atmosphere, unhealthsome dim and damp,
Polluted by long sorrow, swathes the lamp
Of my new hope, and with its deadly blight
Would poison the pure flame, if so it might,
But fire is pure and takes no spurious stamp.
Rivers and streams and the illimitable air,
And the gross earth, though sometime deemed divine,
Sustain corruption: clouds pollute the pole:
But fire—sun, star, and comet's blazing hair,
And silver moon!—their subtler essence fine
Earth cannot stain, nor my love stain thy soul.
Sept. 7th, 1885.
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