Psalm

They have burned to Thee many tapers in many temples:
I burn to Thee the taper of my heart.

They have sought Thee at many altars, they have carried lights to find Thee:
I find Thee in the white fire of my heart.

They have gone forth restlessly, forging many shapes, images where they seek Thee, idols of deed and thought:
Thou art the fire of my deeds; Thou art the white flame of my dreams.
. . . . . . . . .

So little, so wholly given to its human quest,
And yet of Thee, wholly of Thee, Thou Unspeakable,
All the colors of life in a burning white mist
Pure and intense as Thou, O Heart of life!

Frail is my taper, it flickers in the storm,
It is blown out in the great wind of the world:
Yet when the world is dead and the seas are a crust of salt,
When the sun is dark in heaven and the stars have changed their courses,
Forever somewhere with Thee, on the altar of life
Shall still burn the white fire of my heart.
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