By George Sterling

Sweet is this hunger of my flesh for thine,
    Which, if it feed, must feed on dreams alone;
    Yet tho thy lips shut flame upon mine own,
Still were the dreadful ecstasy divine.
Yea! tho thy lilied breast were set to mine
    And all thy beauty given me for throne.
    Yet were the sacrament till then unknown—
The body's bread, the soul's immortal wine.

Abides no other like thee, Craig! Till now
    To gods of clay and shrines unlit I knelt,
        Nor knew the Love whose feet in Heaven have trod.
Surely his kiss was holy on thy brow,
    For raptures visit me till now unfelt,
        And awe me with my boyhood's dream of God.

Glen Ellen.

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