  MYSTERIOUS sway of mortal blood, That urges me upon Thy wood!— O Holy Cross, but I must tell My love; how all my forces dwell Upon Thee and around Thee day and night! I love the Feet upon thy beam, As a wild lover loves his dream; My eyes can only fix upon that sight. O Tree, my arms are strong and sore To clasp Thee, as when we adore The body of our dearest in our arms! Each pang I suffer hath for aim Thy wood—its comfort is the same— A taint, an odour from inveterate balms. My clasp is filled, my sight receives The compass of its power; pain grieves About each sense but as a languid hum: And, out of weariness, at length, My day rejoices in its strength, My night that innocence of strife is come. |
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