Fire out of heaven, a flower of perfect fire, <br /> That where the roots of life are had its root <br /> And where the fruits of time are brought forth fruit; <br />A faith made flesh, a visible desire, <br />That heard the yet unbreathing years respire <br /> And speech break forth of centuries that sit mute <br /> Beyond all feebler footprint of pursuit; <br />That touched the highest of hope, and went up higher; <br />A heart love-wounded whereto love was law, <br />A soul reproachless without fear or flaw, <br /> A shining spirit without shadow of shame, <br />A memory made of all men's love and awe; <br /> Being disembodied, so thou be the same, <br /> What need, O soul, to sign thee with thy name? <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />All woes of all men sat upon thy soul <br /> And all their wrongs were heavy on thy head; <br /> With all their wounds thy heart was pierced and bled, <br />And in thy spirit as in a mourning scroll <br />The world's huge sorrows were inscribed by roll, <br /> All theirs on earth who serve and faint for bread, <br /> All banished men's, all theirs in prison dead, <br />Thy love had heart and sword-hand for the whole. <br />"This was my day of glory," didst thou say, <br />When, by the scaffold thou hadst hope to climb <br />For thy faith's sake, they brought thee respite; "Nay, <br />I shall not die then, I have missed my day." <br /> O hero, O our help, O head sublime, <br /> Thy day shall be commensurate with time.<br /><br />Algernon Charles Swinburne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/armand-barbes/
