Still, I tarry by the caking Gate,
skulking like a leper, proud in mists.
Still, I scold, I silence; yet I crave
all the while for illicit bliss.
Still, I falter in the face of Love,
poison in my eyes; in vain, my hands—
filthy—wring of harps the praises of
She Whom I shall never understand.
Still, I am the only yet removed
from the crowd, the din, the laughter thick
with a Love, or Light, or Heaven’s tune
ringing in my ears. And I am sick,
aching for Her all, but I shall let
all I am be swallowed in its throes.
Still, with tears, despair, sloth and regret—
Still, as I shall know no progress so.