The Pagan

I walked into her Temple, as of yore
  My Tyrian sires, allured by cryptic signs;
But sudden as I entered closed the door
  Upon the hope that mortal love resigns
  Before her ancient, myrtle-bowered shrines.

I sorrowed not; though every lamp I lit
  Flamed up in speech articulate and said,
Beware, O foolish Worshipper! ’t is writ:
  “Who craves a gift shall give his soul instead,
  Who lights a lamp is cursèd of the dead.”

I did not heed; I passed from shrine to shrine,
  Filling the lamps with oil, the Fane with light;
But when I approached, O One Eternal, thine,
  I heard the terror of her tongue, and Night
  Was creeping on her brow of malachite.

I did not stop, although the votive oil
  I poured into thine urn to water turned;
But when the Dawn her enchantments came to foil,
  The secret of thy clemency I learned⁠—
  Again the oil upon thine altar burned.

Then suddenly the Temple shook and swayed,
  And all the shrines, except thine, disappeared;
Even so her heart, by knowledge undismayed,
  On Love’s one altar with thy hand upreared,
  To Love’s one God is evermore endeared.