An Altar-Flame

EVEN as when utter summer makes the grain

Bow heavily along through the whole land

It seems to me whatever while I stand

Where thou art standing; and upon my brain

Thy presence weighs like a most awful strain

Of music, heard in some cathedral fanned

With the deep breath of prayer, while the priest's hand

Uplifts the solemn sign which shall remain

After the world. Thy beauty perfecteth

A noble calmness in me; it doth send

Through my weak heart to my strong mind a rule

Of life that they shall keep till shut of death:

Death—an arched path too long to see the end,

But which hath shadows that seem pure and cool.