10

Slow fire of longing—wealth beyond compare; I will not change my prayer-mat for Heaven’s chair!

Ill fits this world of Your freemen, ill the next: Death’s hard yoke frets them here, life’s hard yoke there.

Close veils inflame the loiterer in Love’s lane; Your long reluctance fans my passion’s flare.

The hawk lives out his days in rocks and desert, Tame nest-twig-carrying his proud claws forswear

Was it book-lesson, or father’s glance, that taught The son of Abraham what son should bear?

Bold hearts, firm souls, come pilgrim to my tomb; I taught poor dust to tower hill-high in air.

Truth has no need of me for tiring-maid; To stain the tulip red is Nature’s care.