Children of the Night

The Altar

     Alone, remote, nor witting where I went,
     I found an altar builded in a dream —
     A fiery place, whereof there was a gleam
     So swift, so searching, and so eloquent
     Of upward promise, that love's murmur, blent
     With sorrow's warning, gave but a supreme
     Unending impulse to that human stream
     Whose flood was all for the flame's fury bent.

     Alas! I said, — the world is in the wrong.
     But the same quenchless fever of unrest
     That thrilled the foremost of that martyred throng
     Thrilled me, and I awoke . . . and was the same
     Bewildered insect plunging for the flame
     That burns, and must burn somehow for the best.