Wages

Sometimes the spirit that never leaves me quite Taps at my heart when thou art in the way, Saying, Now thy Queen cometh: therefore pray, Lest she should see thee vile, and at the sight Shiver and fly back piteous to the light That wanes when she is absent. Then, as I may, I wash my soil'd hands and muttering, say, Lord, make me clean; robe Thou me in Thy white! So for a brief space, clad in ecstasy, Pure, disembodied, I fall to kiss thy feet, And sense thy glory throbbing round about; Whereafter, rising, I hold thee in a sweet And gentle converse that lifts me up to be, When thou art gone, strange to the gross world's rout.