Thou in the East and I here in the West, Under our newer skies purple and pleasant: Who shall decide which is better, attest, Saga or peasant?
Thou with Serapis, Osiris, and Isis, I with Jehovah, in vapours and shadows; Thou with the gods’ joy-enhancing devices, Sweet-smelling meadows.
What is there given us?--Food and some raiment, Toiling to reach to a Patmian haven, Giving up all for uncertain repayment, Feeding the raven.
Striving to peer through the infinite azure, Alternate turning to earthward and falling, Measuring life with Damastian measure, Finite, appalling.
What does it matter! They passed who with Homer Poured out the wine at the feet of their idols: Passing, what found they? To-come a misnomer, It and their idols?
Who knows, ah, who knows! Here in this garden, Heliotrope, hyacinth, soft suns to light me, Leaning out, peering, thou, thou art my warden-- Thou, Aphrodite!
Up from the future of all things there come, Marching abreast in their stately endeavour, Races unborn, to the beat of the drum, Of the Forever.
Resting not, beating down all the old traces, Falls the light step of the new-coming nations, Burning on altars of our loved graces, Their new oblations.
What shall we know of it, we who have lifted Up the dark veil, done sowing and reaping; What shall we care if our burdens be shifted, Waking or sleeping?
Sacristan, acolyte, player or preacher, Each to his office, but who holds the key? Death, only death, thou, the ultimate teacher, Will show it to me.
I am, Thou art, and the strong-speaking Jesus, One in the end of an infinite truth?-- Eyes of a prophet or sphinx may deceive us, Bearing us ruth,
But when the forts and the barriers fall, Shall we not find One, the true, the almighty, Wisely to speak with the worst of us all, O Aphrodite?
Waiting, I turn from the futile, the human, Gone is the life of me, laughing with youth; Steals to learn all in the face of a woman, Mendicant Truth.
Fair be the garden where their loves may dwell, Safe be the highway where their feet may go; Rich be the meadows where their hands may toil, The fountains many where the good wines flow; Full be their harvest bins with corn and oil, And quick their hearts all wise delights to know; To sorrow may their humour be a foil, Tardy their footsteps to the gate Farewell. Deep be your cups. Our hearts the gods make light: Drink, that their joy may never know good-night!