In the feast of sight the eye is sated

With all save that which feeds the eye,

Till thou, O Lover long-awaited,

Comest with thy epiphany.

Thee I implore: "O show thy Face!"

But the light is dim and shadows ply:

Or else I should have met thy grace

Which showers thy boons invisibly.

Whatever meets me in life’s mart

I find I cannot claim as mine,–

When the only intimate of heart

Is unaddressed: thy Self-divine.

Yet suns are sparkles of thy flight,

And agonies but hints of bliss:

Did we, blind slaves, disown our night

Thy oriflamme we never would miss.