A mystagogical quintology

Are waiting only for the rising ray
To burst and blossom. It is here, the light
Which draws the tender plant of rising life
Up from the dark but useful soil
In which the Sower's hand has planted it,
And earth no more is barren; from one seed
A harvest springs, and all the land is filled
With plenty. On the winter of the mind
So also rises spiritual light,
And all the seeds of hope and thought begin
To germinate; the wilderness becomes
A cheerful garden which bears fruit and blooms,
And this is presently a paradise
In which the soul descends, whose angelic rule
Draws all the bitter order of the world
Very sweetly around into the perfect way.
So not in vain shall man, forsaking the senses,
Remain by choice in the domain of the mind.
And not in vain shall the soaring mind ascend
The solemn summits of uplifted thought—
There is the reward mead of souls; the crown is there.
No quest can fail when this is the goal;
Wings shall not be lacking when weary feet give way,
Angels shall carry us when our wings pinions tire,
And if the angels falter in the white
Light of the holy height, One shall be there,
And under us the everlasting arms.