To One who would not Spare Himself

A censer playing from a heart all fire, A flushing, racing, singing mountain stream Thou art; and dear to us of dull desire In thy far-going dream. Full to the grave be thy too fleeting way, And full thereafter: few that know thee best Will grudge it so, for neither thou nor they Can mate thy soul with rest. God put thee from the laws of Time adrift. Lo, He who moves without delay or haste, Far less may love the sheaves of ghostly thrift, Than some diviner waste. Be mine to ride in joy, ere thou art gone, The flame, the torrent, which is one with thee! Saint, from this pool of dying sweep us on Where Life must long to be.