  O O thou in whom, not knowing, I believe, If in these uttered phrases there is naught Of that supreme, deep language of Thy thought Men call religion—yet wilt Thou receive The finished task; though I have dared to leave Unseen, but not unfelt, though best unsought, As Thou thyself to my own heart hast taught, The solemn truths that so will strongest cleave Unto men’s souls. My hand would fain forget Its eager cunning, ere the fingers kissed By one whose love Thou gavest me, should yet Yield all to joy, uncaring if they list,— Thy angels—from the heavenly parapet Of precious stones: “the twelfth, an amethyst!”
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