Half turn'd from me, there stood beside the altar,
Where incense-clouds nigh veiled him from my sight,
A fair-haired priest--my quicken'd heart-beats falter!
Or is he priest, or is he acolyte,
Or layman devotee who prays in novice robes bedight?
O day and night! O day and night! whence comes this feeling?
For all unreal seem day and night and life and death,
And all unreal the hope that sets my senses reeling,
And stills my pulse an instant, checks my lab'ring breath.
Yet louder rolls the mighty organ thund'ring.
And downward slopes a beam of light divine,
The perfumed clouds are cleft: he looks up wond'ring--
Looks up--what does he there before the shrine?
He could not give himself to God, for he is mine, is mine!
O day and night! O day and night! I go forth trembling,
He did not meet my eyes, he never saw my face.
My bosom swells with joy and jealousy resembling
A war of good and evil waged in a holy place.
No longer soft the day, the sun in splendour
Pours all his might upon this green incline;
I lie and watch the cirrus clouds surrender,
Their glowing forms to one hot kiss resign--
How could he give himself to God when he is mine, is mine?
O day and night! O day and night! beneath your glory
The crimson flood of life itself has turned to fire!
The rugged brows of those old rocks, storm-rent and hoary,
Are quivering in their grim surprise at my desire.
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