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?