We are thine, O Love, being in thee and made of thee,
As théou, Léove, were the déep thought
And we the speech of the thought; yea, spoken are we,
Thy fires of thought out-spoken:

But burn-d not through us thy imagining
Like fiérce méood in a séong céaught,
We were as clamour-d words a fool may fling,
Loose words, of meaning broken.

For what more like the brainless speech of a fool,-
The lives travelling dark fears,
And as a boy throws pebbles in a pool
Thrown down abysmal places?

Hazardous are the stars, yet is our birth
And our journeying time theirs;
As words of air, life makes of starry earth
Sweet soul-delighted faces;

As voices are we in the worldly wind;
The great wind of the world-s fate
Is turn-d, as air to a shapen sound, to mind
And marvellous desires.

But not in the world as voices storm-shatter-d,
Not borne down by the wind-s weight;
The rushing time rings with our splendid word
Like darkness fill-d with fires.

For Love doth use us for a sound of song,
And Love-s meaning our life wields,
Making our souls like syllables to throng
His tunes of exultation.

Down the blind speed of a fatal world we fly,
As rain blown along earth-s fields;
Yet are we god-desiring liturgy,
Sung joys of adoration;

Yea, made of chance and all a labouring strife,
We go charged with a strong flame;
For as a language Love hath seized on life
His burning heart to story.

Yea, Love, we are thine, the liturgy of thee,
Thy thought-s golden and glad name,
The mortal conscience of immortal glee,
Love-s zeal in Love-s own glory.