Lyrical Poems
Before the Altar
Before the Altar, bowed, he stands With empty hands; Upon it
perfumed offerings burn Wreathing with smoke the sacrificial urn. Not one
of all these has he given, No flame of his has leapt to Heaven Firesouled,
vermilion-hearted, Forked, and darted, Consuming what a few spare pence
Have cheaply bought, to fling from hence In idly-asked petition.
His sole condition Love and poverty. And while the moon Swings
slow across the sky, Athwart a waving pine tree, And soon Tips all the
needles there With silver sparkles, bitterly He gazes, while his soul Grows
hard with thinking of the poorness of his dole.