O honoured guest in Love's high feast, O bird of the angel-sphere,
'Tis cause to weep, if thou wilt keep thy habitation here.
A voice at morn to thee is borne--God whispers to the soul--
"If on the way the dust thou lay, thou soon wilt gain the goal."
The road be thine toward the Shrine! and lo, in bush and briar,
The many slain of Love and pain in flower of young desire,
Who on the track fell wounded back and saw not, ere the end,
A ray of bliss, a touch, a kiss, a token of the Friend!
'Tis cause to weep, if thou wilt keep thy habitation here.
A voice at morn to thee is borne--God whispers to the soul--
"If on the way the dust thou lay, thou soon wilt gain the goal."
The road be thine toward the Shrine! and lo, in bush and briar,
The many slain of Love and pain in flower of young desire,
Who on the track fell wounded back and saw not, ere the end,
A ray of bliss, a touch, a kiss, a token of the Friend!