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.