Repeats an ancient monotone
That minds me of the time when I
Put out the candles one by one,

And left no splendour on the face
Of Him who found His resting-place
Upon the Cross; and then I went
Out on the desert's empty space,

And heard the wind in monotone
Blow grains of sand against a stone,
Until I sang aloud, to break
The fear of wandering alone.

There is no fear left in my soul,
But when, to-day, an aureole
Of sunlight gathered on your hair,
And winking motes fled here and there,
Like notes of music in the air,
Suddenly I felt the wind
Wake on the desert as I stole
Out of that desecrated shrine,
And then I wondered if you sinned
As part of me, or if the whole
Dark sacrilege were mine.

Cambridge, 1917


V