WE are thine, O Love, being in thee and made of thee,
As théou, Léove, were the déep thought
And we the
speech of the thought; yea, spoken are we,
Thy fires of thought out-spoken:
But burnd not through us thy imagining
Like fiérce méood in a séong céaught,
We were as clamourd words a
fool may fling,
Loose words, of meaning broken.
For what more like the brainless speech of a fool,
The lives travelling dark fears,
And as a boy throws
pebbles in a pool
Thrown down abysmal places?
Hazardous are the stars, yet is our birth
And our journeying time theirs;
As words of air, life makes of
Sweet soul-delighted faces;
As voices are we in the worldly wind;
The great wind of the worlds fate
Is turnd, as air to a shapen sound,
And marvellous desires.
But not in the world as voices storm-shatterd,
Not borne down by the winds weight;
The rushing time
rings with our splendid word
Like darkness filld with fires.
For Love doth use us for a sound of song,
And Loves meaning our life wields,
Making our souls like syllables
His tunes of exultation.
Down the blind speed of a fatal world we fly,
As rain blown along earths fields;
Yet are we god-desiring
Sung joys of adoration;
Yea, made of chance and all a labouring strife,
We go charged with a strong flame;
For as a language
Love hath seized on life
His burning heart to story.
Yea, Love, we are thine, the liturgy of thee,
Thy thoughts golden and glad name,
The mortal conscience
of immortal glee,
Loves zeal in Loves own glory.