Oh blue sky-dome, oh world companionless! Fear comes on me in this wide desolation.

Lost travelers, you and I; what destination is yours, bright poppy of the wilderness?

No prophet walks these hills, or we might be; twin Sinai-flames; you bloom on Heaven’s spray.

For the same cause I tore myself away: To unfold; to be our selves, our wills agree.

On the diver of Love’s pearl-bank be God’s hand: In every ocean-drop all ocean’s deeps!

The whirlpool mourning for its lost wave weeps, born of the sea and never to reach the land.

Man’s hot blood makes earth’s fevered pulses race, with stars and sun for audience.

Oh cool air of the desert! Let it be mine too to share in silence and heart’s glow, rapture and grace.