I am a ruined temple, void of prayer,
Unless thy spirit stir the stagnant air;
A hollow reed, a tongueless, broken bell,
A soul cast down in some sequestered hell.
I cannot track the beating of my heart,
For it doth dwell where’er thou moving art;
My breath is but a vapor, thin and cold,
Unless by thy dear lungs it be controlled.
I once didst hear a poet's stern decree,
A maxim forged in cold autonomy,
That “two solitudes protect and border and greet each other,”
Lest one the other’s inner essence smother.
But what is "distance" to a heart that’s slain?
What "border" can a shadow's ghost maintain?
I have no kingdom, no sequestered height,
That is not borrowed from thy blinding light.
To guard thy silence is a task too grand,
For I have not a single inch of land
That is not tilled by thy beloved hand.
If thou shouldst turn thy face, the stars wouldst flee,
And leave no "I" to love the thought of "Thee";
For in the dark, un-centered void of space,
I am but a reflection of thy grace.
I crave no separate paths beneath the sky,
Where eagles in their lonely grandeur fly;
I’d rather be the dust beneath thy feet,
Than in a sacred solitude retreat.
For if thou art the life, and I the breath,
Thy mere departure is my instant death