 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
We as fearful fugitíves, with faltering knees;
Where all unknown, before our nightmare steps;
(So dread, so dark!) have hasted thence to pass.
In crooked ways we tread, uncertain paths.
Our torches fitful gleam showed us at length;
Framed like unénding dove-cote, ín derne cliff:
Or, to compare together small and great;
Like to the formal treasure-house óf the bee:
Where innocents sleep, buds of great Tree of Life;
Whom Winters spite had withered from the root.
Ere might they, tó a kíndly Sun unfold,
Their frail first leaves. Their place of rest beneath,
Cradle to cradle, in Under-World, was this.
Where all unknown, before our nightmare steps;
(So dread, so dark!) have hasted thence to pass.
In crooked ways we tread, uncertain paths.
Our torches fitful gleam showed us at length;
Framed like unénding dove-cote, ín derne cliff:
Or, to compare together small and great;
Like to the formal treasure-house óf the bee:
Where innocents sleep, buds of great Tree of Life;
Whom Winters spite had withered from the root.
Ere might they, tó a kíndly Sun unfold,
38
Cradle to cradle, in Under-World, was this.
We, us seemed, long Night traverse of squalid paths,
Beyond. The abode, of lunatic spirits, we pass;
Some of whom waked. I viewed, with hearts dismay,
Their sad fond troubled looks!
Beyond. The abode, of lunatic spirits, we pass;
Some of whom waked. I viewed, with hearts dismay,
Their sad fond troubled looks!
To lower deeps,
Decline our steps: whose vaulted gloom might pierce
Our torches ray uneath. Was then, we ceased
To bé urged forth. Thus stayed, in Womb of Earth;
Not being yet manifest Herthas promised Voice;
We feared, as shut in íron unending tomb.
Till I bethóught me of thát, the Muses staff.
In darkness dread, I poised it then upright:
And as it fell forth, we addressed our face.
Decline our steps: whose vaulted gloom might pierce
Our torches ray uneath. Was then, we ceased
To bé urged forth. Thus stayed, in Womb of Earth;
Not being yet manifest Herthas promised Voice;
We feared, as shut in íron unending tomb.
Till I bethóught me of thát, the Muses staff.
In darkness dread, I poised it then upright:
And as it fell forth, we addressed our face.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |