Solitudes

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Solitudes

Poem

Oh for what rich glut of a forgotten birth
Do I now atone with this barren worship?
Were there splendid sacred fires without dearth
Rising like an army to win Thy kinship?

Was it an excess, the thousand sacrificial seats,
Lining riverbank and plains like a fiery field,
Peopled by thousand chaste lips and steady wills
That summoned Thy miracle on earth to unfold.

How many sceptres were mine to misuse,
Over how many brows were my unjust sway?
That to will’s extent Thou doth now refuse
Every effectuation save what’s Thine in a day.

Thou wert no ascetic O Beloved of mine,
Then pray tell why these hours are empty,
Carrying no joy that to me doth incline,
Forever abandoning me to the lonely way.

Burden my solitudes with the joys of Thee,
Give not to scepticism the adoring heart of me.