Oracles, I

Let not any withering Fate, With her all too sombre thread, Flying from the Ivory Gate, Make thy soul discomforted: From the nobler Gate of Horn, Take the blessing of the morn.

Eyes bent full upon the goal, Whatso be the prize of it: Tireless feet, and crystal soul, With good heart, the salt of wit: These shall set thee in the clear Spirits' home and singing sphere.

Hush thy melancholy breath, Wailing after fair days gone: Make thee friends with kindly Death, That his long dominion, With a not too bitter thrall, Hold thee at the end of all.

Sorrow, angel of the night, Sorrow haughtily disdains Invocation by our light Agonies, and passing pains: Sorrow is but under pure Cloven hearts their balm and cure.