Sibylline

THERE is a glory in the apple boughs 
  Of silver moonlight; like a torch of myrrh, 
Burning upon an altar of sweet vows, 
  Dropped from the hand of some wan worshipper: 
And there is life among the apple blooms 
  Of whisp’ring winds; as if a god addressed 
The flamen from the sanctuary glooms 
  With secrets of the bourne that hope hath guessed, 
Saying: ‘Behold! a darkness which illumes, 
  A waking which is rest.’ 
 
There is a blackness in the apple trees 
  Of tempest; like the ashes of an urn 
Hurt hands have gathered upon blistered knees, 
  With salt of tears, out of the flames that burn: 
And there is death among the blooms, that fill 
  The night with breathless scent,—as when, above 
The priest, the vision of his faith doth will 
  Forth from his soul the beautiful form thereof,— 
Saying: ‘Behold! a silence never still; 
  The other form of love.’