Poems By Mary Elizabeth Coleridge |
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 | Poems |  |
i
O thou slight word, most like to breath, and madeOf a few letters merely, what's in thee,
Terror of flesh, the spirit's ecstasy,
Mysterious, voiceless, shadow of a shade?
84
Do call thee Sleep and Passing. Thou set'st free
Infinite shapes of all a man may be,
Yet at thy nothingness he shrinks dismayed.
If thou wert not, the Poets had been dumb,
And Music silent. Yea, majestic Art
Had never sought and found her better part
Nor by the living eyes betrayed the heart.
Great prophecy were an unmeaning hum,
What-is no longer holding what's-to-come.
| Poems | |