Before thy shrine I kneel, an unknown worshipper, <br /> Chanting strange hymns to thee and sorrowful litanies, <br />Incense of dirges, prayers that are as holy myrrh. <br /> <br />Ah, goddess, on thy throne of tears and faint low sighs, <br /> Weary at last to theeward come the feet that err, <br />And empty hearts grown tired of the world's vanities. <br /> <br />How fair this cool deep silence to a wanderer <br /> Deaf with the roar of winds along the open skies! <br />Sweet, after sting and bitter kiss of sea-water, <br /> <br />The pale Lethean wine within thy chalices! <br /> I come before thee, I, too tired wanderer, <br />To heed the horror of the shrine, the distant cries, <br /> <br />And evil whispers in the gloom, or the swift whirr <br /> Of terrible wings -- I, least of all thy votaries, <br />With a faint hope to see the scented darkness stir, <br /> <br />And, parting, frame within its quiet mysteries <br /> One face, with lips than autumn-lilies tenderer, <br />And voice more sweet than the far plaint of viols is, <br /> <br /> Or the soft moan of any grey-eyed lute-player.<br /><br />Rupert Brooke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ante-aram/
