O Master, I can not adventure with thee;
At the Door of the Dawn, in my lone wandering,
I have broken my staff; for the true dawn is she
Who comes every day with her jar to the spring.
Ay, Master, I tarried last night at the gate
Of her garden, which kisses the Lake Galilee;
She was gathering flowers and fruits for the Fete,
And with tulips and poppies she beckoned to me.
In her lamp there was oil, in my hand there was fire;
In her house cried a voice, “O make haste with the flame!”
On my lips were the names of the daughters of Tyre,
On her breast were the lilies that whispered thy name.
I have dared, O my Master, to envy thy feet,
And to yearn for the love of a Magdalen fair;
I have dreamed that mine, too, in the heart of the street,
Were laved with her own hands and dried with her hair.
O Master, my lips her devotion have stained,
For her soul’s precious ointments were offered too late;
I have lost in the fire of my lust what I gained
In my longing and love for her love and thy fate.