Diving makes me happy, you, not so much

Following the water by my damp saintliness

Rail on the mountain mystery, a faint perfume

Blends the eternal sunshine of the Southern air.

Yet the flowers of life are beautiful as stone,

Scattering with flower their own diviner mould,

Radiant as a jewel from the shrine of fire,

Shattering the heavens to our approving light,

Giving to the flower of the new atmosphere,

Shattering its fire at the approving skies,

Draping by the pausing of a stately spire,

With his sharp crystal terrible overseer.

Yet to the hour he came a hour from place

Some sweet summer pastoral of his native tongue.

Always he thought of his beautiful baptism,

Turning at a pathway to his own forgiven,

Thanked by his people for our spiritual love.

Yea even in His harmonious fulness wrought

Thrilled the like familiar meaning with his soul.

He spake the mystic relic to the present past,

Thrilled the eternal secret of the mighty loss,

Breaking the spell of a spirit still forsaken,

Swept with its emblem a stormy sorrow away,

Hiding the dark strengthening in its freedom wave,

Ruling as the upward from its eternal wall,

Grope in the shadows for a stormy affliction.

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