THE FATAL FORCE 59
At the fountain-heads of light;
Fanned to whirling fiery flight,
As the spark of life is dwindled
In the sacramental span,
In the star that flashes white
In the body of a man;
By the swart Osirian power,
If, when strikes the holy hour
Of the holy sacrifice,
Angels swoon from starry homes
Full of inexpressive eyes,
That the blood that swells and foams
Lighten with the fervid air,
To create from death’s despair
Masteries of music, domes
Gilded with the splendid essence of the highest
hope of man;
If the sombre stream that ran
From the smitten breast be kindled with the
sacrificial fire:
If the altar set above
In the palaces of love
Glow with this, the perfect passion
And sublime desire
From the clay of Fate to fashion
His own glory, to inspire
Worlds impossible to thought
With the beauties, subtly wrought,
Of his own creative strength.
Spirit of the Gods! O single,