Our hands are clasped, and yet there is no prayer, Our arms outstretched, and yet no cry is there; Adoring something, what, we cannot say. More pure than we are and more far away, With spirit fervent and most guileless grown, How we are mingled and dissolved in one; Ah, how we live each other, in the unknown! Oh, how absorbed and wholly lost before The presence of those hours supreme one lies! And how the soul would fain find other skies To seek therein new gods it might adore; Oh, marvellous and agonizing joy, Audacious hope whereon the spirit hangs, Of being one day Once more the prey, Beyond even death, of these deep, silent pangs. From "LES APPARUS DANS MES CHEMINS" ST. GEORGE Opening the mists on a sudden through, An Avenue! Then, all one ferment of varied gold, With foam of plumes where the chamfrom bends Round his horse's head, that no bit doth hold, St. George descends! The diamond-rayed caparison, Makes of his flight one declining path From Heaven's pity down upon Our waiting earth. Hero and Lord Of the joyous, helpful virtues all. Sonorous, pure and crystalline! Let his radiance fall On my heart nocturnal and make it shine In the wheeling aureole of his sword! Let the wind's soft silvern whispers sound And ring his coat of mail around, His battle-spurs amid the fight! --He--the St. George--who shines so bright And comes, 'mid the wailings of my desire. To seize and lift my poor hands higher Toward his dauntless valour's fire! Like a cry great with faith, to God His lance St. George upraised doth hold; Crossing athwart my glance he trod. As 'twere one tumult of haggard gold. The chrism's glow on his forehead shone, The great St. George of duty high! Beautiful by his heart, and by Himself alone! Ring, all my voices of hope, ring on! Ring forth in me Beneath fresh boughs of greenery, Down radiant pathways, full of sun; Ye glints of silvery mica, be Bright joy amid my stones--and ye White pebbles that the waters strew. Open your eyes in my brooklets, through The watery lids that cover you; Landscape of gushing springs and sun, With gold that quivers on misty blue, Landscape that dwells in me, hold thou The mirror now To the fiery flights, that flaming roll, Of the great St. George toward my soul! 'Gainst the black Dragon's teeth and claws, Against the armour of leprous sores, The miracle and sword is he; On his breast-plate burneth Charity, And his gentleness sends hurtling back. In dire defeat, the Instinct black. Fires flecked with gold, that flashing turn, Whirlwinds of stars, those glories meet, About his galloping horse's feet. Deep into my remembrance burn Their lightnings fleet!