In those hours when we seem shut out
From all that is not part of us,
What cleansing flood is it, so nebulous,
That bathes and circles our two hearts about?
Joining our hands, without a prayer,
Arm to arm, without a cry,
Seeking we know not what nor where,
Something far off, more pure than thou or I--
Thou fervent soul, oh say
How does one live in this yearned-for day?
In those high hours how deep doth grow our will
In front of life's supremacies!
What need of other heavens still,
Wherein with newer gods to cope!
What anguish and what ecstasies,
And what unflinching hope
To be, one day,
Through death itself, the prey
Of these far silent agonies!