 | Carol and Cadence |  |
THE TWO GATES.
Happy, belike, is he
Who, having, end to end, explored Thought's trackless sea,
Returneth back again to Ignorance's shore
And settling 'midst his kin, the folk that never think,
The endless quest gives o'er
And leaves the sounding of the obscure To-Be
To those who have not stood on Time's abysmal brink.
Who, having, end to end, explored Thought's trackless sea,
Returneth back again to Ignorance's shore
And settling 'midst his kin, the folk that never think,
The endless quest gives o'er
And leaves the sounding of the obscure To-Be
To those who have not stood on Time's abysmal brink.
At Being's either pole
A bare blank wall there is, that bars the exploring soul.
Here is the Gate of Birth; the Gate of Death is there;
Though whether Birth is Death or Death is Birth, who knows?
No sign there is of stair
By which our feet may reach the eternal goal;
And still 'twixt gate and gate Life's sea resurgent flows.
A bare blank wall there is, that bars the exploring soul.
Here is the Gate of Birth; the Gate of Death is there;
Though whether Birth is Death or Death is Birth, who knows?
No sign there is of stair
By which our feet may reach the eternal goal;
And still 'twixt gate and gate Life's sea resurgent flows.
Yet, none by other's fate
Admonished, still men fare, seeking, from gate to gate,
The secret of the things that are beyond the abyss,
The keys of Life and Death expecting still to find,
Though whether that or this
They know not nor the terms can calculate
Of spheres that lie beyond the orbit of the mind.
Admonished, still men fare, seeking, from gate to gate,
The secret of the things that are beyond the abyss,
The keys of Life and Death expecting still to find,
Though whether that or this
They know not nor the terms can calculate
Of spheres that lie beyond the orbit of the mind.
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This being so, God wot,
Were it not well, — if not contented with our lot
To sit, — to cease, at least, against the eternal rocks
Our brows fore'er to bruise and spend our strength in quest
Of keys to unknown locks,
To ask no more of what for us is not
And take what here alone on earth is certain, — rest?
Were it not well, — if not contented with our lot
To sit, — to cease, at least, against the eternal rocks
Our brows fore'er to bruise and spend our strength in quest
Of keys to unknown locks,
To ask no more of what for us is not
And take what here alone on earth is certain, — rest?
Nay, that, indeed, might be,
If moulded of mere flesh and blood alone were we.
Alack, within our veins an unknown ichor runs;
An other-worldly stress there stirreth in our brain;
Our dreams by other suns
Are lit; our thoughts, upon another sea
Than those of this our earth, to other spheres outstrain.
If moulded of mere flesh and blood alone were we.
Alack, within our veins an unknown ichor runs;
An other-worldly stress there stirreth in our brain;
Our dreams by other suns
Are lit; our thoughts, upon another sea
Than those of this our earth, to other spheres outstrain.
So, though the endeavour all
In vain we know, the stern, the inevitable call
Of those invisible powers, to which akin we are,
Still biddeth us go beat against the cliff-line sheer,
Till, when the fatal star
Ordains, a passage gape in either wall
(We know not which) and we pass in and disappear.
In vain we know, the stern, the inevitable call
Of those invisible powers, to which akin we are,
Still biddeth us go beat against the cliff-line sheer,
Till, when the fatal star
Ordains, a passage gape in either wall
(We know not which) and we pass in and disappear.
| Carol and Cadence | |