Though the falcon of the brain
Yearneth on the wing to be,
Archers in this desert plain
Wait upon him secretly!

Yet the tied and twisted cord
Lacketh not for remedy:
Singing can the cure afford
Of this hard perplexity.

If the power of speech be there,
Yet is knowledge not possessed;
Hapless servant, who doth bear
Such a secret in his breast!

Though a hundred varied ways
They should’burn and ravage me,
There is comfort in my blaze
And a glad felicity.

Dust, and dead as dust, are we,
Yet a heart we merited:
Lo! the living deity
Heart-engendered in the dead.

In my breast there is a flame
Setteth all the house aglow,
Yet it is the very same
That the house doth overthrow.

Plato’s mind the world described,
Yet I will not trust in it,
For a heart is in my side
Bold to view the infinite.