During those hours wherein we are lost so far
from all that is not ourselves, what lustral
blood or what baptism bathes our hearts that
strain towards all love?
Clasping our hands without praying, stretching
out our arms without crying aloud, but with
earnest and ingenuous mind worshipping something
farther off and purer than ourselves, we know not
what, how we blend with, how we live our lives
in, the unknown.
How overwhelmed we are in the presence of those
hours of supreme existence; how the soul desires
heavens in which to seek for new gods.
Oh! the torturing and wondrous joy and the daring
hope of being one day, across death itself, the
prey of these silent terrors.