Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/170

 Only, with strength renewed and spirit of youth, And brighter than the sun's the body of Truth Eternal, unimaginable of man, Whose very face not Thought's own eyes may scan, But see far off his radiant feet at least, Trampling the head of Fear, the false high priest, Whose broken chalice foams with blood no more, And prostrate on that high priest's chancel floor, Bruised, overthrown, blind, maimed, with bloodless rod, The miscreation of his miscreant God. That sovereign shadow cast of souls that dwell In darkness and the prison-house of hell Whose walls are built of deadly dread, and bound The gates thereof with dreams as iron round, And all the bars therein and stanchions wrought Of shadow forged like steel and tempered thought And words like swords and thunder-clouded creeds And faiths more dire than sin's most direful deeds: That shade accursed and worshipped, which hath made The soul of man that brought it forth a shade Black as the womb of darkness, void and vain, A throne for fear, a pasturage for pain, Impotent, abject, clothed upon with lies, A foul blind fume of words and prayers that rise, Aghast and harsh, abhorrent and abhorred, Fierce as its God, blood-saturate as its Lord; With loves and mercies on its lips that hiss Comfort, and kill compassion with a kiss, And strike the world black with their blasting breath; That ghost whose core of life is very death