The Soul of Osiris

THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 17 One sonnet-thought, the metre cannot die But urges, but compels me to compose More and still more, and still my spirit goes Striving up glittering steeps of symphony. There is an angel who is guardian. Surely her wings are rosy, and her feet Black as the wind of frost ; but oh ! her face ! Whoso may know it is no more a man, But walks with God, and sees the Lady sweet Whose body was the vehicle of grace. III. Eternal beauty in eternal truth, Isis ! And Thoth, the scribe of destiny, And Mary’s excellent virginity ! Ye are the witness of the ageless youth That crowns the sonnet. In your wondrous eyes Lie hidden all the secrets of the world, And as the lightning of your look is hurled So glean I something of life’s harmonies. Look then upon me ! Let my insight pierce The clouds of this material universe Unto your splendour that no mortal eye May see and live. Even so, how small the price ! My soul accepts its own sweet sacrifice : Let me but strike one perfect chord—and die.