A CENSER playing from a heart all fire,
A flushing, racing, singing mountain stream
Thou art; and dear to us of dull desire
In thy far-going dream.
Full to the grave be thy too fleeting way,
And full thereafter: few that know thee best
Will grudge it so, for neither thou nor they
Can mate thy soul with rest.
God put thee from the laws of Time adrift.
Lo, He who moves without delay or haste,
Far less may love the sheaves of ghostly thrift,
Than some diviner waste.
Be mine to ride in joy, ere thou art gone,
The flame, the torrent, which is one with thee!
Saint, from this pool of dying sweep us on
Where Life must long to be.