THE HOLY OF HOLIES. 
109 
With fairer melodies, and borne, alone, 
Aloft, to the immeasurable throne. 
 
O mighty palace of immortal stone ! 
 O glamour of the fathomless gray snow ! 
O clouds !  O whirlwinds of my mountain throne ! 
 I charge your souls to go 
Unto the souls of men, and bid them rise 
Toward redemption, and the unsullied eyes. 
 
I charge you go and whisper unto men 
 The solemn glories of your secret mind, 
Making them pure, and wise ;  return ye then 
 Unto your proper kind, 
Having thus offered water, blood, and tears, 
For the remission of our carrion years. 
 
So deepen all the mountains :  even so 
 The wandering shadows close upon the day ; 
The sunlight burns its fading ruby glow 
 On the chaotic way. 
Night falls, and I must tread the dizzy steep 
Again, to plunge to the devouring deep. 
 
The blessing of the Highest shall be set 
 On your white heads, O monarchs of the snow ! 
The blessing of the Highest, lightening yet 
 The burdens that ye know. 
So, as three golden arrows of the sun 
Strike, may the threefold sacrament be One !