What we have given to God we do not ask back.
The temperature of other minds-
How new and strange an awe!
My own words chill and burn me
Chaffing my brain raw.
Moderate words from lips of guests
Alarm--as zephyr blown-
One whom extremes have nourished
But was not quite alone;
One who conversed in accents
Tempered tongues disown-
The delirium of fever,
the chink of frozen bone.[5]
The martyr may not choose his food
But gourmand won't complain
If cup holds only suffering
And plate be heaped with pain.
The tart fare, tribulation,
His appetite but whets,
Each lavish course a banquet whose
Swift passage he regrets.
Consumed is each least morsel-
Crumb, stem, stone, rind and all,
the victuals of love's festal board
Were ever sugared gall.
Were final wine a scarlet brew
He'll drain the keg, if able,
And rising long embrace sweet Host
Who sets so rich a table.[9]
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