Those Unknown Gods, who move behind a veil
No mortal sense may ever hope to lift;
We only know they falter not nor fail,
And they have granted us one lovely gift.
This Gift of Love, which we condemn, despise
Bending it to the baseness of our will.
Yet in the lowest depths that passion lies
It surely keeps some heaven-born fragrance still.
Therefore, O, you, who find the Perfect Way,
Scorn not the lesser, lighter loves you see,
Unworthy though they seem, yet who shall say
Fate works not through them, for the Days to Be?
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