THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 
31 
I, whose strong arms enfold her 
 Immaculate surrender. 
 
Pure as the dawns that quicken 
On snow-topped mountains stricken 
 By first gray light that grows, 
By beams that gather, thicken, 
A web of fairy ticken, 
 To make a fairy rose : 
Pure as the seas that lave 
With phosphorescent wave 
The sombre architrave 
 Of Castle No-man-knows. 
 
Pure as the dreams, undreamt 
(That men have in contempt, 
 That wise men yearn to see), 
Of angel forms exempt 
From mockeries that tempt 
 Who fly about the lea ; 
Proclaiming things unheard, 
Unknown to brightest bird, 
Things, whose unspoken word 
 Is utmost secrecy. 
 
So pure, so pale we lie, 
Like angels eye to eye, 
 Like lovers lip to lip. 
So, the elect knight, I 
Keep vigil to the sky, 
 While the dumb moments slip.