The world will say, "What mystic love is this"?
What ghostly mistress? What Angelic friend?
Read, Masters, your own passion to the end,
And tell me then if I have writ amiss.
When all love die that hang upon a kiss,
And with Cavil and with chance contend,
Their risen selves with Eternal blend
Where perfect dying is their perfect bliss.
And might I kiss her once, asleep or dead.
Upon the forehead or the globbed eyes.
Or where the Gold is parted on her head.
As if I kissed the consecrated bread
In which the buried Soul of Alta lies.