THE altar-lights burn low, the incense-fume 
Sickens: O listen, how the priestly prayer 
Runs as a fenland stream; a dim despair 
Hails through their chaunt of praise, who here inhume 
A clay-cold Faith within its carven tomb. 
But come thou forth into the vital air 
Keen, dark, and pure! grave Night is no betrayer, 
And if perchance some faint cold star illume 
Her brow of mystery, shall we walk forlorn? 
An altar of the natural rock may rise 
Somewhere for men who seek; there may be borne 
On the night-wind authentic prophecies: 
If not, let this--to breathe sane breath--suffice, 
Till in yon East, mayhap, the dark be worn.