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 !