Exploding all your faery blunders,

Explaining neatly—“Thus and thus

Hath science banished heaven now, 

And see—your Groom is crucified—”

On heaven’s breast you lean your brow

And laugh, and love—Saint Bride, Saint Bride.

THE SLAVE OF GOD

 The finest fruit God ever made

 Hangs from the Tree of Heaven blue.

 It hangs above the steel sea blade

 That cuts the world’s great globe in two.

 The keenest eye that ever saw

 Stares out of Heaven into mine,

 Spins out my heart, and seems to draw

 My soul’s elastic very fine.

 The greatest beacon ever fired

 Stands up on Heaven’s Hill to show

 The limit of the thing desired,

 Beyond which man may never go.

*    *    *     *     *     *

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