Classic Poem

Whose lives are bound
By sleep and custom and tranquillity
Have never found
That peace which is a riven mystery
Who only share
The calm that doth this stream, these orchards bless,
Breathe but the air
Of unimpassioned pagan quietness….
Initiate,
Pain burns about your head, an aureole,
Who hold in state
The utter joy which wounds and heals the soul.
You kiss the Rod
With dumb, glad lips, and bear to worlds apart
The peace of God
Which passeth all understanding in your heart.