 | The book of the dead |  |
117
[LIII. I cannot pass that threshold o'er]
I cannot pass that threshold o'er
Without a sinking of the soul;
A spectre haunts the open door,
And round the walls low murmurs roll.
Without a sinking of the soul;
A spectre haunts the open door,
And round the walls low murmurs roll.
A voice seems calling from within,
That should not speak on earth again;
The voice sounds ghostly faint and thin,
But, O my soul! how strangely plain!
That should not speak on earth again;
The voice sounds ghostly faint and thin,
But, O my soul! how strangely plain!
It cries for vengeance at my hand,
It dooms me to this task forlorn,
It drives me on as with a brand,
It sneers my weakness into scorn.
It dooms me to this task forlorn,
It drives me on as with a brand,
It sneers my weakness into scorn.
The hopeless fate of ancient Greece,
That ground resistance into dust,
Ladens that mandate, and I cease
To struggle, and am onward thrust.
That ground resistance into dust,
Ladens that mandate, and I cease
To struggle, and am onward thrust.
118
I do my part. The place is cursed
Beyond man's prayers; the curse must fall;
A desecrated grave has burst,
And poured its darkness over all.
Beyond man's prayers; the curse must fall;
A desecrated grave has burst,
And poured its darkness over all.
| The book of the dead | |