WHEN night has risen and foamed to stars

Out of the sable pot

Rimmed by horizon mysteries

And floored with our finite lot,

Then as one rising through the dark air.

Clinging to the ground no more,

I would utterly lose this finite bubble hood

Of self and earthly lore

And pass to the high serene ethers,

Bursting through finite name,

To meet, to mingle, be made one with

The unborn Silver Flame.