Chapter XXIII: The Justification

Life I adore, and not Life's accidents. A garlanded and dream-fast thurifer My Soul comes out from beauty's purple tents That incense-troubled Love may grieve and stir, Be ransomed from satiety's sad graves, And go to God up the bright stair of Wonder. Since passion makes immortal Time's tired slaves I am of those that delicately sunder Corruptions of contentment from the breast As with rare steel. Like music I unveil Last things, till, weary of earthen cups and rest, You seek Montsalvat and the burning Grail. Ah! blindly, blindly, wounded with the roses, I bear my spice where Ecstasy reposes.