One cannot draw the bars against the friends
And guests that crowd for entrance at his gate
He opes, inviting, nor the simple state
Of his abode against their train defends,
But there are chambers where the lover tends
His sacred fires; where no feet penetrate,
Save of immortals; where, early and late,
The breath of prayer and sacrifice ascends.
In such a spot as this, as in the shrine
Of some white temple, in a dusk made sweet
With incense, far from outer noise and heat,
And hollow haste of them that part and meet,
Surrounded by dim presences divine,
My soul communes eternally with thine.