 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
We might not tárry, in Únderworlds paths.
Yet mongst souls' blessed Dead of the White Isle;
(Where we more softly now and reverent tread):
Vouchsafed the foster-Voice, whom I besought;
I linger might, befóre clear shining rock;
At my petition become visible:
Wherein appeared a little cubicle.
White was it as mine Islands cliffs; whereo'er
A gentle dove stood graven, with wings displayed.
(There I alone, a private grief might open.)
Yet mongst souls' blessed Dead of the White Isle;
(Where we more softly now and reverent tread):
Vouchsafed the foster-Voice, whom I besought;
I linger might, befóre clear shining rock;
At my petition become visible:
47
White was it as mine Islands cliffs; whereo'er
A gentle dove stood graven, with wings displayed.
(There I alone, a private grief might open.)
With childhood eyes, I looked upon a tomb:
I an alabaster casket gazed upon.
Peace I read, (her lifes name,) shine graven thereon;
Who numbered with the blesséd, here sleeps and waits;
That Dawn celestial, which shall not fade:
(The eyes of love, even marble-stone may pierce!)
I an alabaster casket gazed upon.
Peace I read, (her lifes name,) shine graven thereon;
Who numbered with the blesséd, here sleeps and waits;
That Dawn celestial, which shall not fade:
(The eyes of love, even marble-stone may pierce!)
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |