Prologos
Those of the fields’, those of the mart’s obeying, —
The altars blaze with gifts;
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And here and there, heaven-high the torch uplifts
Flame-medicated with persuasions mild,
With foul admixture unbeguiled —
Of holy unguent, from the clotted chrism
Brought from the palace, safe in its abysm.
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Of these things, speaking what may be indeed
Both possible and lawful to concede,
Healer do thou become! — of this solicitude
Which, now, stands plainly forth of evil mood,
And, then . . . but from oblations, hope, to-day
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Gracious appearing, wards away
From soul the insatiate care,
The sorrow at my breast, devouring there!
