The Lost Disciple

O Master, I can not adventure with thee; 

  At the Door of the Dawn, in my lone wandering, 

I have broken my staff; for the true dawn is she 

  Who comes every day with her jar to the spring. 



Ay, Master, I tarried last night at the gate

   Of her garden, which kisses the Lake Galilee; 

She was gathering flowers and fruits for the Fete, 

   And with tulips and poppies she beckoned to me. 



In her lamp there was oil, in my hand there was fire; 

   In her house cried a voice, ‘O make haste with the flame!’

On my lips were the names of the daughters of Tyre, 

   On her breast were the lilies that whispered thy name. 



I have dared, O my Master, to envy thy feet, 

   And to yearn for the love of a Magdalen fair; 

I have dreamed that mine, too, in the heart of the street, 

   Were laved with her own hands and dried with her hair. 



O Master, my lips her devotion have stained, 

  For her soul’s precious ointments were offered late; 

I have lost in the fire of my lust what I gained 

   In my longing and love for her love and thy fate.