FIVE candles burning steadily

Hard by that austere altar of the heart,

Foursquare, with lines that wry

Not leftward nor to right

(Nor spendthrift Life nor sophistries of Art

Could wrench it from the worship of the Light).

The Light has entered in its substance and

Framed, shaped, wrought it to Perfection's day

In those dark wrappings of the Direful Land ;

Beleaguered there by fitful gusts' desiring,

Set amid futilities of mortal clay,

It waits the Light, with fivefold flame aspiring.