The Lost Disciple

O Master, I can not adventure with thee; At the Door of the Dawn, in my lone wandering, I have broken my staff; for the true dawn is she Who comes every day with her jar to the spring.

Ay, Master, I tarried last night at the gate Of her garden, which kisses the Lake Galilee; She was gathering flowers and fruits for the Fete, And with tulips and poppies she beckoned to me.

In her lamp there was oil, in my hand there was fire; In her house cried a voice, “O make haste with the flame!” On my lips were the names of the daughters of Tyre, On her breast were the lilies that whispered thy name.

I have dared, O my Master, to envy thy feet, And to yearn for the love of a Magdalen fair; I have dreamed that mine, too, in the heart of the street, Were laved with her own hands and dried with her hair.

O Master, my lips her devotion have stained, For her soul’s precious ointments were offered too late; I have lost in the fire of my lust what I gained In my longing and love for her love and thy fate.