Sibylline

I

There is a glory in the apple-boughs
Of glimmering moonlight,--like a torch of myrrh,
Burning upon an altar of sweet vows,
Dropped from the hand of some pale worshiper:--
And there is life among the apple-blooms
Of mystic winds,--as if a god addressed
The flamen from the sanctuary glooms,
Revealing secrets which no man has guessed,
Saying: “Behold! a darkness which illumes:
A waking which is rest.”

II

There is a blackness in the apple-trees
Of tempest,--like the ashes of an urn
Hurt hands have gathered upon blistered knees,
With salt of tears, out of the flames that burn:--
And there is death among the blooms, that fill
The night with breathless scent,--as when, above
The priest, the vision of his faith doth will
Forth from his soul the beautiful form thereof,
Saying: “Behold! a silence never still:
And love that’s more than love.”