O hark the lyre; that chime of bells
when pure souls glide to strew their gifts
and pink Downs bask in scents of grace.
As wings brush earth gold crowns spark flames
blest by High Will to waltz the skies
for man born rich in God's mystic array.
“O hail sweet loves we thaw your trance
bow at our kiss,” the fire voice calls.
Light sears iron bonds; black shades howl past
Their lash is mute; no storm stirs blood.
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