 | Poems |  |
59
The Sacrament of Love
Love brimmed the golden bowl of life
With generous measure;
The importunacy of strife
Subdued to pleasure;
Made sensitive to lightest play
The heart's vibration;
And taught upon his shrine to lay
The due oblation.
With generous measure;
The importunacy of strife
Subdued to pleasure;
Made sensitive to lightest play
The heart's vibration;
And taught upon his shrine to lay
The due oblation.
A priest came by and cast a doubt
Into that nectar;
'Twas wrong, he said, to be without
Pain, the corrector;
The idolater in hell, he vowed,
Lies next the scoffer;
Only to God are men allowed
Homage to offer.
Into that nectar;
'Twas wrong, he said, to be without
Pain, the corrector;
The idolater in hell, he vowed,
Lies next the scoffer;
Only to God are men allowed
Homage to offer.
Such wormwood in the bowl he threw,
With holy malice;
Some drops, splashed up like rosy dew,
Fell in his chalice;
He sipped, and happier than a child
He grew, and meeker;
Pleasure and pain were reconciled
Within that beaker.
With holy malice;
Some drops, splashed up like rosy dew,
Fell in his chalice;
He sipped, and happier than a child
He grew, and meeker;
Pleasure and pain were reconciled
Within that beaker.
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