O thou in whom, not knowing, I believe,
If in these uttered phrases there is naught
Of that supreme, deep language of Thy thought
Men call religion—yet wilt Thou receive
The finished task; though I have dared to leave
Unseen, but not unfelt, though best unsought,
As Thou thyself to my own heart hast taught,
The solemn truths that so will strongest cleave
Unto men’s souls. My hand would fain forget
Its eager cunning, ere the fingers kissed
By one whose love Thou gavest me, should yet
Yield all to joy, uncaring if they list,—
Thy angels—from the heavenly parapet
Of precious stones: “the twelfth, an amethyst!”