Before the Altar, bowed, he stands
          With empty hands;
          Upon it perfumed offerings burn
          Wreathing with smoke the sacrificial urn.
          Not one of all these has he given,
          No flame of his has leapt to Heaven
          Firesouled, vermilion-hearted,
          Forked, and darted,
          Consuming what a few spare pence
          Have cheaply bought, to fling from hence
          In idly-asked petition.

          His sole condition
          Love and poverty.
          And while the moon
          Swings slow across the sky,
          Athwart a waving pine tree,
          And soon
          Tips all the needles there
          With silver sparkles, bitterly
          He gazes, while his soul
          Grows hard with thinking of the poorness of his dole.

          "Shining and distant Goddess, hear my prayer
          Where you swim in the high air!
          With charity look down on me,
          Under this tree,
          Tending the gifts I have not brought,
          The rare and goodly things
          I have not sought.
          Instead, take from me all my life!

          "Upon the wings
          Of shimmering moonbeams
          I pack my poet's dreams
          For