O MOON of Love, Whose radiant face

Illumes a might we know not here,

Whose wine’s distilled in sigh and tear,

Whose cups are souls, whose flagon’s grace.

For Thee the world directs its gaze

Upon the firmament on high,

The while another subtler sky

Is filled and gladdened with Thy rays.

The arches where the enlightened kneel

Are Thy twin brows. Thou art the priest

Of temple as of mosque. The least

And greatest seek from Thee their weal.

Of self unheeding, out of range

Of other minds the lover’s heart

Lives from the circling world apart;

His words are wild, his gestures strange.

Earnest in search, the goal in sight,

Unflagging, spurred by new desire,

Forward he presses ever higher;

His eyes are filled with hopeful light.

His path towards the unknown land

He holds, and only craves of Thee

To lean in time of agony

A step or two upon Thy hand.

If Thou and he be twain, the soul

That loves must natheless onward fare

Through bane and bliss from stair to stair

Until it reach in Thee its goal.