The low-voiced girls that go In gardens of the Lord, Like flowers of the field they grow In sisterly accord.
Their whispering feet are white Along the leafy ways; They go in whirls of light Too beautiful for praise.
And in their band forsooth Is one to set me free — The one that touched my youth — The one God gave to me.
She kindles the desire Whereby the gods survive — The white ideal fire That keeps my soul alive.
Now at the wondrous hour, She leaves her star supreme, And comes in the night's still power, To touch me with a dream.
Sibyl of mystery On roads unknown to men, Softly she comes to me, And goes to God again.