[Written for the Sentinel]

O Heart of Mine

O Heart of mine, hast thou a place prepared
For that sweet presence thou hast sought so long?
Has love, with harp and viol, lifted up
Its holy ardor in thy secret song?

Has joy unsullied tilled thy vineyard fair,
And left no stone of sloth embedded there,
And stilled the winds of memory-haunted days,
And filled thy chalice with the wine of praise?

Swiftly as flew the heavenly Seraphim
With fiery coal to purge all dross and sin,
A glow of kindling warmth suffused the plain
And rose, from trembling deeps, a sacred flame;

And burned the adamantine walls, self-wrought,
And shone down all the corridors of thought,
And wreathed the sacred hills of pure desire,
And girdled barren isles with holy fire.

Bend low, O heart of mine, tender and warm,
With chambers swept of envy, pride, and scorn;
Thy lamp of Truth no darkling shade can dim,
For love with vesture white hath entered in.

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