THE altar-lights burn low, the incense-fume br Sickens: O listen, how the priestly prayer br Runs as a fenland stream; a dim despair br Hails through their chaunt of praise, who here inhume br A clay-cold Faith within its carven tomb. br But come thou forth into the vital air br Keen, dark, and pure! grave Night is no betrayer, br And if perchance some faint cold star illume br Her brow of mystery, shall we walk forlorn? br An altar of the natural rock may rise br Somewhere for men who seek; there may be borne br On the night-wind authentic prophecies: br If not, let this--to breathe sane breath--suffice, br Till in yon East, mayhap, the dark be worn.