‘My way is not thy way, and thine is not mine.
But come, before we part
Let us separately go to the Morning Star,
And meet there.
I do not point you to my road, nor yet
Call: “Oh come!”
But the Star is the same for both of us,
The good ghost of me goes down the distance
To the Holy Ghost.
Oh you, in the tent of the cloven flame
Meet me, you I like most.
Each man his own way forever, but towards
The hoverer between;
Who opens his flame like a tent-flap,
As we slip in unseen.
A man cannot tread like a woman,
Nor a woman step out like a man.
The ghost of each through the leaves of shadow
Moves as it can.
But the Morning Star and the Evening Star
Pitch tents of flame
Where we foregather like gypsies, none knowing
How the other came.
I ask for nothing except to slip
In the tent of the Holy Ghost
And be there in the house of the cloven flame,
Guest of the Host.
Be with me there, my woman,
Be bodily there.
Then let the flame wrap round us
Like a snare.
Be there along with me, O men!
Reach across the hearth,
And laugh with me while the woman rests
For all we are worth.’