 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
317
LIFE.
Prisoned I was within a noble hall,
Ringed round with many gracious images,
And through it floated strains that might appease
The soul's sore thirst for music. On each wall
Fair pictures hung to hold the eye in thrall, —
High mountains clothed in cold, immaculate peace,
A light of water between wavering trees,
Wild seas wherefrom drowned mariners seemed to call.
Ringed round with many gracious images,
And through it floated strains that might appease
The soul's sore thirst for music. On each wall
Fair pictures hung to hold the eye in thrall, —
High mountains clothed in cold, immaculate peace,
A light of water between wavering trees,
Wild seas wherefrom drowned mariners seemed to call.
A table stood there, heaped with fruits and wine,
But, lo, the fruits turned ashes at my gaze,
And to my taste the gold juice seemed like brine:
Here must one die, then, with no chance for strife,
Loathing the impotent beauty of the place? —
Then these words shivered past me, “This is Life!”
But, lo, the fruits turned ashes at my gaze,
And to my taste the gold juice seemed like brine:
Here must one die, then, with no chance for strife,
Loathing the impotent beauty of the place? —
Then these words shivered past me, “This is Life!”
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |