VESPERS. 
 
THE incense steams before the Christ, 
It wraps His feet with grey, 
A perfumed melancholy mist, 
Tears sacred from the day ; 
And awe, a holiness, I wist, 
More sweet than man may say. 
 
I bend my head to kiss the brow, 
Scarred and serene and wide, 
The bosom and the loin-cloth now 
And where the blood has dried, 
The blood whose purple tide doth flow 
From out the smitten side. 
 
The fragrance of his skin begets 
Desire of holy things ; 
 
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