The Doom of Man
Not in the cold grave’s hush, nor worm’s slow quest,
Doth man’s true ruin lie - ah, no!
But in the living death, when the immortal Guest
Bows low and drains the lees of base desire,
When the winged soul, once robed in heaven’s own fire,
Weds the rank flesh and names its chains attire.
O sorrow older than the stars, more deep
Than ocean’s black, unfathomed abyss!
Behold the sacred, veiled in light, how it must creep
Into the mire, and there forget its name,
Till rose and lily, star and altar-flame
Become mere fuel for a brutish, fleeting game.
From æon unto æon the same lament
Wails through the hollow spheres:
The sacred turned empty, the pure element
Defiled by hands once lifted up in prayer.
This is the curse, the everlasting care
That gnaws the heart of Time and leaves it bare.
Therefore, O mortal, thou who bearest still
A spark from yonder throne -
Let not one dawn escape thee without sacred will!
With every breath re-sanctify the clay,
With every thought uplift the fallen day,
Till life itself transcends all flawed decay!
For only thus the prisoned god within
Breaks the dark bars of sense,
And, soaring through the veils of guilt and sin,
Beholds once more the eternal Morning’s glow,
Where Love and Beauty, never stained below,
Forever bloom where mortal passions cannot go.