Holy of holies Confessions of an anarchist [by J. E. Barlas] |
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17
XIII.
[Plague-wind and comet can but love to blight.]
Plague-wind and comet can but love to blight.Therefore I joy we are so far apart—
I but a burning self-tormenting heart,
Thou a still star high up in the pure night
Brooding as with white wings o'er my red flight,
Holding a lamp to guide my venturous start,
Severe, serenest being that thou art,
Angel or goddess, moon or star of light.
Ah well thou art so high, so still, so great,
So all-fulfilled in thine own essence clear,
So self-sufficient in cold majesty!
Our paths can never meet. Our separate fate
Sets gulfs between. From hell that wraps me here
I lift mine eyes to thee in heaven on high.
Sept. 9th, 1885.
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