 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
Nor seld that Wise-sayer toucheth,
The tuneful lute, he alway bare in hand.
When, ón those dreaming strings, Kung softly plays:
Them seemeth they hear, celestial harmonies.
Whereúnto should a man attúne his being.
Kung, ín his progress, stays; he on us gazed!
And, Strangers, quoth, of other Land than ours;
What seek ye? And how, not yet disbodied spirits;
Found ye éntry ínto our Mid-Kingdom here?
The tuneful lute, he alway bare in hand.
When, ón those dreaming strings, Kung softly plays:
Them seemeth they hear, celestial harmonies.
Whereúnto should a man attúne his being.
Kung, ín his progress, stays; he on us gazed!
And, Strangers, quoth, of other Land than ours;
What seek ye? And how, not yet disbodied spirits;
Found ye éntry ínto our Mid-Kingdom here?
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |