Flesh,
I have knocked at many a dusty door,
Gone down full many a midnight lane,
Probed in old walls and felt along the floor,
Pressed in blind hope the lighted window-pane,
But useless all, though sometimes when the moon Was full in heaven and the sea was full,
Along my body's alleys came a tune Played in the tavern by the Beautiful.
Then for an instant I have felt at point To find and seize her, whosoe'er she be,
Whether some saint whose glory doth anoint Those whom she loves, or but a part of me,
Or something that the things not understood Make for their uses out of flesh and blood.
