There are desert places,
Where the springs
Seem far away;
The harvest,  sure
At the birth;
But it is not born:
The seed, and
The earth touch,
But do not mix;
There is contact,
But no communion.

Beguiled and betrayed,
By the evangel
Of the desert lily:
There is a soul,
In touch with life;
But not alive,
In touch with Truth,
Not knowing Its nature;
Hands touch, but
They do not clasp:
There is contact,
But no communion.

Of that Mystic Immanence;
There may be feeling,
But no perception,
No vital correspondence;
Tremendous happenings,
May attend the birth,
But nothing is born:
The seed is near,
But not in the ground;
The Lord is near,
But not in the soul;
There is contact,
But no communion.

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