In his imperfect fashion, 
So that thy wisdom and they strength are sold 
In every mart of earth ; 
So that thine eyes enfold 
The universe in one great look of love 
Bring this, bring this to birth ! 
And neither hate below, nor hate above, 
Nor chance, nor force, nor cunning shall deprive 
Man of thy gift, a love alive 
With more than men to-day can understand. 
 
 
XV 
 
IVE me thine hand, 
  Rose of the Stars, and we will soar above 
Wisdom and Strength and Love, 
Into the sphere where all delight retires 
In azure flames and silver-edgéd fires. 
Now through the veil we shoot 
Like snaky lightning through a thundercloud 
Up to the awful precipice-skirted place 
Where deaf, blind, palsied, mute 
There sits the leprous God ;  we laugh aloud 
Seeing him face to face, 
Blowing him like a shaken sheaf of snow 
With a brief gust of wind 
Over the cliffs of his ensanguine throne ; 
Seating ourselves thereon, as men shall know, 
15 
G