The Soul of Osiris

122 THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. When, like a bad dream changing, swiftly grows A new soul’s joy, a fuller-pettalled rose. Many the spirits broken for one man ; Many the men that perish to create One God the more ; many the weary and wan Old Gods that die to constitute a Fate : How many Fates then, think you, must control The stainless aspiration of the soul ? Not one. I tell you, destiny is sure, Yet moves no finger : though it tune my tongue, My tongue shall tune it too : my words endure As destiny decays : my hands are flung In prayer to Heaven ; nay, to mine own crown, To raise myself, and not to drag it down ! O holiest Lord of the divine white flame Of brilliance sworded in the temple sky ! O thou who knowest my most secret name, Who whisperest when only thou and I Make up our universe : bestow thy kiss : Arise ! Come, let us pierce the old abyss ! Rise ! Move ! Appear ! Let us go forth together, Into the solemn passionless profound, Into the darkness, and the thrilling weather, Into the silence louder than all sound, Into the vast implacable inane ! Come, let us journey thither once again !