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93

XIII
NORMAN NÉRUDA

She stood with lifted bow in act to sweep
The strings: sound flashed; the silent air caught fire;
And, wave on wave upsurging high and higher,
The waters of our soul—one stormy heap—
Hung menacing. Anon she bade them sleep,
She woke the winds of Memory: dead desire
Revived; hope grappled with the eternal liar;
Love saw the end, and deemed the forfeit cheap.
She pierced the bounds of Being; with one breath
Of that prevailing strain she fell on fate
And slew it; back swung the adamantine gate,
Self-opening; there was no more time or death.
And then she ceased. And oh, how steep the fall
From heaven to that dark, disenchanted hall!