The Year of the World A Philosophical Poem on "Redemption from The Fall". By William B. Scott |
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| II. | PART SECOND.
THE JOURNEY. |
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| II. |
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 | The Year of the World |  |
23
II. PART SECOND. THE JOURNEY.
The retirement of the pure faculty into the Sanctuary. The workman begins his work. The workman sleeps. The Doctrine of contemplative Absorption.
27
I.
How like to ours the ancient tale of Psyche!
Happy in her enrichéd palace, stored
With pleasant sights, and sounds, and dainty fare,
By day; and Love himself her guest by night;
Until she longed to know him, and the lamp
Held to his sleeping face,—from thence no more
Her guest; and she an outcast from that hour.
Alike yet different. For the feminine
Was not then sanctioned by the great advent
Which Gabriel announced with bended knee
And sceptre of white lilies unto Mary:
She the appointed medium between God
Descending and the man redeemed. Nor then
The sufferer had been deemed divine—the Moral
Come into light! the Moral which will lead us
Out of the realm of pain. Such change again
May be, and future fables hold the man
More perfect; when the Strong and Just shall be
One Will, as force was virtue in old times.
Meanwhile I make the Energy the error,
Masculine power, a birth and death power only.
Happy in her enrichéd palace, stored
With pleasant sights, and sounds, and dainty fare,
By day; and Love himself her guest by night;
Until she longed to know him, and the lamp
Held to his sleeping face,—from thence no more
Her guest; and she an outcast from that hour.
Alike yet different. For the feminine
Was not then sanctioned by the great advent
Which Gabriel announced with bended knee
And sceptre of white lilies unto Mary:
She the appointed medium between God
Descending and the man redeemed. Nor then
The sufferer had been deemed divine—the Moral
Come into light! the Moral which will lead us
Out of the realm of pain. Such change again
May be, and future fables hold the man
More perfect; when the Strong and Just shall be
28
Meanwhile I make the Energy the error,
Masculine power, a birth and death power only.
Upon the sand strewn with sea-baubles, she,
Mneme, the sister of the wanderer, stands.
The chill breeze beats upon her sorrowing breast
And bares her lustrous limbs: the alternate wave
Enamoured of her trembling feet heaps up
The snowy foam around them.
Mneme, the sister of the wanderer, stands.
The chill breeze beats upon her sorrowing breast
And bares her lustrous limbs: the alternate wave
Enamoured of her trembling feet heaps up
The snowy foam around them.
Thus she stood,
Nor ever turned she from that cheerless sea
Her eye so placid, yet so earnest-sad:
She follows him upon the nether shore,
Among opposing boughs of swarthy forests,
And broken bones of a degraded world,
Stony ravines and rocks, and obscure life.
“Would that he could have understood me! would
That he had read upon my yearning face
Those things which must be felt, or be unknown;
Which words articulate may not convey!
Alas! new wonders are before him, all
The changes of the sea's green countenance,
The solitude of winds and hills, the moaning
Of waves in hollow caves and deep dank lairs
Between the jaws and gorges of the dark.
With these he strives—and walled by those obstructions
Doth he forget this heart that beats for him,
And these soft arms that cradled him so oft,
And these lips fading now that kissed his sleep
In the dove-shelter of our living groves.
Lave me, my handmaids! from your pebbly home
Come up, with freshening salutation come;
Ye sparkle round my feet, while I am faint,
And all my immortality decays
Into a fleeting breath, while demon forms
Stand in the path of the adventurous child
Of fire from heaven, and fabricated mortals—
Dædaléan things with life but seeming—
Invite him to be one of them—to rush
Downwards into the seething toils of change.
Ye spirits who delight
In crowded sisterhood beneath the stir
Of the great waves, upon your ambient hair
Reclined, in close embracement of curved limbs:
Ye who delight to gather shells and pearls,
And cast them on the sands with gleaming heads
Through the white tide-foam. Ye whom I behold
By the red peak or morning mountain sides,
Flying aslant with feet to feet among
The sun-fringed clouds, upon whose dance the rainbow
Its azure and its violet doth shed.
And ye who ever sit i' the boles of woods
Deafened with moss;—where even the aspen-boughs
Waver not in the still air:—couched in leaves,
With eyes fixed all day on some sapling stem
Strengthening in spring time. Ye whose lucid limbs
Sleep in the quiet fountain undisturbed,
Save by a veering leaf from shadowy tree
Alighting with faint circle by the reeds.
Minister to me that I wane away
Not altogether:—be around Him still,
To bear his memory back to this warm breast.
Nor ever turned she from that cheerless sea
Her eye so placid, yet so earnest-sad:
She follows him upon the nether shore,
Among opposing boughs of swarthy forests,
And broken bones of a degraded world,
Stony ravines and rocks, and obscure life.
“Would that he could have understood me! would
That he had read upon my yearning face
Those things which must be felt, or be unknown;
Which words articulate may not convey!
29
The changes of the sea's green countenance,
The solitude of winds and hills, the moaning
Of waves in hollow caves and deep dank lairs
Between the jaws and gorges of the dark.
With these he strives—and walled by those obstructions
Doth he forget this heart that beats for him,
And these soft arms that cradled him so oft,
And these lips fading now that kissed his sleep
In the dove-shelter of our living groves.
Lave me, my handmaids! from your pebbly home
Come up, with freshening salutation come;
Ye sparkle round my feet, while I am faint,
And all my immortality decays
Into a fleeting breath, while demon forms
Stand in the path of the adventurous child
Of fire from heaven, and fabricated mortals—
Dædaléan things with life but seeming—
Invite him to be one of them—to rush
Downwards into the seething toils of change.
Ye spirits who delight
In crowded sisterhood beneath the stir
Of the great waves, upon your ambient hair
Reclined, in close embracement of curved limbs:
30
And cast them on the sands with gleaming heads
Through the white tide-foam. Ye whom I behold
By the red peak or morning mountain sides,
Flying aslant with feet to feet among
The sun-fringed clouds, upon whose dance the rainbow
Its azure and its violet doth shed.
And ye who ever sit i' the boles of woods
Deafened with moss;—where even the aspen-boughs
Waver not in the still air:—couched in leaves,
With eyes fixed all day on some sapling stem
Strengthening in spring time. Ye whose lucid limbs
Sleep in the quiet fountain undisturbed,
Save by a veering leaf from shadowy tree
Alighting with faint circle by the reeds.
Minister to me that I wane away
Not altogether:—be around Him still,
To bear his memory back to this warm breast.
“Wonderful that he left this land of light
And peace to be a ruler in a world
Whose happiness is pain, whose beauty and joy
Are tears and wounds; my eye-lids droop in fear
Before the passing vision that reveals
A constant interchange of sentient death.
And peace to be a ruler in a world
Whose happiness is pain, whose beauty and joy
Are tears and wounds; my eye-lids droop in fear
31
A constant interchange of sentient death.
“Lonely I turn, oh spirits meek, to you
All our great mother's ministers of love:
As a thin shade evanishing away,
As music hovering o'er a drowsy ear
I lean on your immortal breasts!”
All our great mother's ministers of love:
As a thin shade evanishing away,
As music hovering o'er a drowsy ear
I lean on your immortal breasts!”
They heard,—
The beautiful things of nature heard her moan,
And buoyed her up reclining on their arms.
The countless spirits from the shrine she served
Flocked down upon the sward without a sound;
The blue flowers shone like children's trusting eyes
From the green turf, and undulating snakes
With glistening skins come round her; while the waves
Whose constant alternations fill the shells
As if in sport, a silver moaning made,
That sank with infinite quiet to her heart:
And the gay breeze thoughout the thornless groves
Seeking to win its way to every nook,
Whispered such music as the Dryads love,
When the strong sun upon their heavy hair
Sheds gold, and deep repose, and indolent dreams.
“Fear not, fair priestess, whose kind wonderment
Hath followed far the wanderer grievingly,
Fear not but yet this Eden breeze will lift
His mantle hurrying towards his natal home.
Fear not that Storm and Strife have power so strong
That he may never disentwine their woof,
Or that the lank lips and the muffled brow
Of Meditation gloomily bowed down
In starless funeral crypt, can fascinate
His heart: or that she may his willing hands
Clasp in her own for ever: he will stoop
And gaze into her face, and disenchant
The evil power, and she will die away,
And her home open to his franchised steps
That has no bourne but here. Fear not that he
Who tasted the cool berries of these trees
Will ever lose his immortality.
Enter—we are around thee, perfect one,
The sisters of the waves their emerald cells
Strew with strange beauty that thou mays't repose
Among them: the brown daughters of the woods
Smooth their mazed brakes that thy fine foot may fall
Pleasantly: and the oozing fountain drops,—
Drops placidly from its cold cave, where oft
The lizard venomless with guiding tail
Crosses from rim to rim, and lilies float
With snowy cup full spread. Thou shalt live on
Amidst the endless trance of day and night;—
The evening star will pass into the morn,
And the sun's chariot verge towards the south
And back due eastward; trees shall shed their leaves,
The birds their feathers, and the prancing deer
His antlers: but no other change shall press
Upon thy peace. No Dædaléan seeming
Of Life and Good; no ruling men in mail,
Or burden bearing, or loud-tongued complaint,
Or love spasmodic, or desires forbidden,
Or dying murmurs of regretful pains,
Shall penetrate into thy hidden home.”
The beautiful things of nature heard her moan,
And buoyed her up reclining on their arms.
The countless spirits from the shrine she served
Flocked down upon the sward without a sound;
The blue flowers shone like children's trusting eyes
From the green turf, and undulating snakes
With glistening skins come round her; while the waves
Whose constant alternations fill the shells
As if in sport, a silver moaning made,
That sank with infinite quiet to her heart:
And the gay breeze thoughout the thornless groves
Seeking to win its way to every nook,
32
When the strong sun upon their heavy hair
Sheds gold, and deep repose, and indolent dreams.
“Fear not, fair priestess, whose kind wonderment
Hath followed far the wanderer grievingly,
Fear not but yet this Eden breeze will lift
His mantle hurrying towards his natal home.
Fear not that Storm and Strife have power so strong
That he may never disentwine their woof,
Or that the lank lips and the muffled brow
Of Meditation gloomily bowed down
In starless funeral crypt, can fascinate
His heart: or that she may his willing hands
Clasp in her own for ever: he will stoop
And gaze into her face, and disenchant
The evil power, and she will die away,
And her home open to his franchised steps
That has no bourne but here. Fear not that he
Who tasted the cool berries of these trees
Will ever lose his immortality.
Enter—we are around thee, perfect one,
The sisters of the waves their emerald cells
Strew with strange beauty that thou mays't repose
Among them: the brown daughters of the woods
33
Pleasantly: and the oozing fountain drops,—
Drops placidly from its cold cave, where oft
The lizard venomless with guiding tail
Crosses from rim to rim, and lilies float
With snowy cup full spread. Thou shalt live on
Amidst the endless trance of day and night;—
The evening star will pass into the morn,
And the sun's chariot verge towards the south
And back due eastward; trees shall shed their leaves,
The birds their feathers, and the prancing deer
His antlers: but no other change shall press
Upon thy peace. No Dædaléan seeming
Of Life and Good; no ruling men in mail,
Or burden bearing, or loud-tongued complaint,
Or love spasmodic, or desires forbidden,
Or dying murmurs of regretful pains,
Shall penetrate into thy hidden home.”
II.
Man hath begun his journey: farewell rest,
And light, and harmony and beauty, all
Spontaneous or instinctive sense, farewell.
No retrograde, no turning the tired foot
Even for respite or repose, a force
Of infinite impulsion drives him on;
No looking back along the path he clears
As he advances, for the wings of clouds
Close after him. No silence, for the boughs
Are rent, and with his giant arms the rocks
Are broken and removed, and mammoth beasts
Howl at him from afar. He builds himself
A throne—he passes on, and in that throne
A shadow of himself remains, a form
Like a phosphoric mist amid the blackness.
Whose limbs are chained as if an agony
Had fixed them in that coil for evermore,
And in whose hand a flaming torch appears
To which the stars are weak. With shouts of joy
At each new light, man raises as he goes
Torches and fires, strange light and warmth exhaling,
Through which cloud, rock, and beast with gleaming eyes,
Shrink terror stricken. Now another throne
He rears, another demigod is crowned,—
The mighty hunter! whose unerring arm
Holds the death-loaded reed, and his clear eye
Looks from a smooth brow—while the herded wolves,
And panthers, and the lion, fly in vain:
A shout exulting doth the laborer send
Along the world, and round his loins the skin
Of the striped tiger now behold, and on
His feet the wild bull's hide. Again I hear
Acclaim, a mixed acclaim, and to his rest
The pastoral patriarch ascends—the plain
Spreads out, a vast expanse girt in by hills;
Obedient flocks and herds are gathered here,
Obedient birds frequent. Upon the grass
The shepherd's crook is seen. Upon the earth
The sower's wallet—Evoe! the wheat sheaves!
Io! oh joy, the vine with trained stems
Fills the great vat with wine. Close following him
A form heroic and yet matronly
Gathers her woven skirts, and round her head
Draws the fair woven hood, as in the gloom
Of antique mythos she becomes enthroned:
The distaff holds she and the twirling spindle,
Comfort with blessings rife. Again the line
Of thrones which will encompass yet the world
Receives another reared of molten brass.
And he who now ascends those brazen steps,
Is he not Tubal Cain, beyond all honor,
Father of Crafts, and conqueror of toils?
The armed wanderer quickens in his speed,
The laborer works now easily, advancing
As if with wingéd speed. Anon he looks
Upon his blackened limbs, and in the stream
Laving, resumes his travail more composed.
Again the line of giants is increased,
The sweet inaugural hymn prolongs even yet
Through these millenniums of past history
Its happy echoes; for this spirit holds
A stringéd shell, and with exhaustless words
Evolves the sense of nature, and reforms
The solid world, that man and woman sees
The paradise they long for, the true vision
Of the interior heart of all things. Ha!
What dubious giant follows this, the loved one?
Light flames around him, but the form is dark,
And terrible his lidless eyes look out
As when he slew the dragon and its teeth
Sowed in the furrowed ground, to bear a crop
Of strife unending: or as when he taught
The record of the past its permanence
Upon the graven tablet and the scroll.
Who next appears?
Another lovely and beloved, behold!
The perfect shall be with us from henceforth—
And the deformed, debased, shall not alone
Environ life, the beautiful appears
Answering the Idea, plastic will
Grasps at the Symbol. In unfading youth
He leans upon the pillar of his shrine,
The brown hair falls around his neck, the brow
Warm as a living mortal's, and the style
Hangs in his subtle hand.
And light, and harmony and beauty, all
34
No retrograde, no turning the tired foot
Even for respite or repose, a force
Of infinite impulsion drives him on;
No looking back along the path he clears
As he advances, for the wings of clouds
Close after him. No silence, for the boughs
Are rent, and with his giant arms the rocks
Are broken and removed, and mammoth beasts
Howl at him from afar. He builds himself
A throne—he passes on, and in that throne
A shadow of himself remains, a form
Like a phosphoric mist amid the blackness.
Whose limbs are chained as if an agony
Had fixed them in that coil for evermore,
And in whose hand a flaming torch appears
To which the stars are weak. With shouts of joy
At each new light, man raises as he goes
Torches and fires, strange light and warmth exhaling,
Through which cloud, rock, and beast with gleaming eyes,
Shrink terror stricken. Now another throne
He rears, another demigod is crowned,—
The mighty hunter! whose unerring arm
35
Looks from a smooth brow—while the herded wolves,
And panthers, and the lion, fly in vain:
A shout exulting doth the laborer send
Along the world, and round his loins the skin
Of the striped tiger now behold, and on
His feet the wild bull's hide. Again I hear
Acclaim, a mixed acclaim, and to his rest
The pastoral patriarch ascends—the plain
Spreads out, a vast expanse girt in by hills;
Obedient flocks and herds are gathered here,
Obedient birds frequent. Upon the grass
The shepherd's crook is seen. Upon the earth
The sower's wallet—Evoe! the wheat sheaves!
Io! oh joy, the vine with trained stems
Fills the great vat with wine. Close following him
A form heroic and yet matronly
Gathers her woven skirts, and round her head
Draws the fair woven hood, as in the gloom
Of antique mythos she becomes enthroned:
The distaff holds she and the twirling spindle,
Comfort with blessings rife. Again the line
Of thrones which will encompass yet the world
Receives another reared of molten brass.
36
Is he not Tubal Cain, beyond all honor,
Father of Crafts, and conqueror of toils?
The armed wanderer quickens in his speed,
The laborer works now easily, advancing
As if with wingéd speed. Anon he looks
Upon his blackened limbs, and in the stream
Laving, resumes his travail more composed.
Again the line of giants is increased,
The sweet inaugural hymn prolongs even yet
Through these millenniums of past history
Its happy echoes; for this spirit holds
A stringéd shell, and with exhaustless words
Evolves the sense of nature, and reforms
The solid world, that man and woman sees
The paradise they long for, the true vision
Of the interior heart of all things. Ha!
What dubious giant follows this, the loved one?
Light flames around him, but the form is dark,
And terrible his lidless eyes look out
As when he slew the dragon and its teeth
Sowed in the furrowed ground, to bear a crop
Of strife unending: or as when he taught
The record of the past its permanence
37
Who next appears?
Another lovely and beloved, behold!
The perfect shall be with us from henceforth—
And the deformed, debased, shall not alone
Environ life, the beautiful appears
Answering the Idea, plastic will
Grasps at the Symbol. In unfading youth
He leans upon the pillar of his shrine,
The brown hair falls around his neck, the brow
Warm as a living mortal's, and the style
Hangs in his subtle hand.
They fade behind me in their state: and still
Others arise more potent and august,
A human god aye adding to the past.
But yet the wanderer in his fitful joys
Stood still despondingly, for endless seemed
The struggle, and much evil everywhere.
It is indeed a generous joy to feel
The impress of myself on outward things.
But why this doubt, this palpitation strange?
Where am I, and whence came I in this guise,—
E'er I dispelled the boyhood of the heart?
Is there indeed a less conditional joy?
Is there indeed a fixed truth?—do I dream
Of what I hope until the dream becomes
Confused with memory,—do I hope until
The fable of my hopes becomes like truth?
Dim memories of faded cycles these—
Or nought, perhaps, but the unfilled desire;
The longings of the soul that feels its power
Superior to the dull oft-trodden round
Leading again unto the starting point:
The refuge of the heart when life's frail lamp
Glimmers beneath the troublous glooms of care,
And Fancy's wing alone remains untired.
Others arise more potent and august,
A human god aye adding to the past.
But yet the wanderer in his fitful joys
Stood still despondingly, for endless seemed
The struggle, and much evil everywhere.
It is indeed a generous joy to feel
The impress of myself on outward things.
But why this doubt, this palpitation strange?
Where am I, and whence came I in this guise,—
38
Is there indeed a less conditional joy?
Is there indeed a fixed truth?—do I dream
Of what I hope until the dream becomes
Confused with memory,—do I hope until
The fable of my hopes becomes like truth?
Dim memories of faded cycles these—
Or nought, perhaps, but the unfilled desire;
The longings of the soul that feels its power
Superior to the dull oft-trodden round
Leading again unto the starting point:
The refuge of the heart when life's frail lamp
Glimmers beneath the troublous glooms of care,
And Fancy's wing alone remains untired.
The vision dies away like the sound of waves
Borne on the distant winds, then swells again
Clearly and beautifully amidst all
The tongues of multitudes in dissonant clang—
Or tyrant-patriarchs toiling with their slaves;—
Or horrid war, hands trenchant on the life!—
Above the riot of the wine-inspired,
Throughout all melody and words and forms—
Over the noise of labor and disease,
Above all voice of passion, on my soul
A reminiscent conscience often steals.
Borne on the distant winds, then swells again
Clearly and beautifully amidst all
The tongues of multitudes in dissonant clang—
Or tyrant-patriarchs toiling with their slaves;—
Or horrid war, hands trenchant on the life!—
Above the riot of the wine-inspired,
Throughout all melody and words and forms—
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Above all voice of passion, on my soul
A reminiscent conscience often steals.
III.
Here stood he still, the Ganges ebbed and flowed
Up to his feet, and as he gazed, the river,—
The river and the air articulate thoughts
Uttered thus to him.
Up to his feet, and as he gazed, the river,—
The river and the air articulate thoughts
Uttered thus to him.
“Give reverence, O man, to mystery,
Keep your soul patient, and with closed eye hear.
Know that the Good is in all things, the whole
Being by him pervaded and upheld.
He is the will, the thwarting circumstance,
The two opposing forces equal both—
Birth, Death, are one. Think not the Lotus flower
Or tulip is more honored than the grass,
The bindwind, or the thistle. He who kneels
To Cama, kneeleth unto me; the maid
Who sings to Ganga sings to me; I am
Wisdom unto the wise, and cunning lore
Unto the subtle. He who knows his soul,
And from thence looketh unto mine; who sees
All underneath the moon regardlessly,
Living on silent, as a shaded lamp
Burns with steady flame:—he sure shall find me—
He findeth wisdom, greatness, happiness.
Keep your soul patient, and with closed eye hear.
Know that the Good is in all things, the whole
Being by him pervaded and upheld.
He is the will, the thwarting circumstance,
The two opposing forces equal both—
Birth, Death, are one. Think not the Lotus flower
Or tulip is more honored than the grass,
The bindwind, or the thistle. He who kneels
40
Who sings to Ganga sings to me; I am
Wisdom unto the wise, and cunning lore
Unto the subtle. He who knows his soul,
And from thence looketh unto mine; who sees
All underneath the moon regardlessly,
Living on silent, as a shaded lamp
Burns with steady flame:—he sure shall find me—
He findeth wisdom, greatness, happiness.
“Know, further, the Great One delighteth not
In him who works, and strives, and is against
The nature of the present. Not the less
Am I the gladness of the conqueror—
And the despair of impotence that fails.
I am the ultimate, the tendency
Of all things to their nature, which is mine.
Put round thee garments of rich softness, hang
Fine gold about thine ancles, hands, and ears,
Set the rich ruby and rare diamond
Upon thy brow.—I made them, I also
Made them be sought by thee; thou lack'st them not?
Then throw them whence they came, and leave with them
The wish to be aught else than nature forms.
In him who works, and strives, and is against
The nature of the present. Not the less
Am I the gladness of the conqueror—
And the despair of impotence that fails.
I am the ultimate, the tendency
Of all things to their nature, which is mine.
Put round thee garments of rich softness, hang
Fine gold about thine ancles, hands, and ears,
Set the rich ruby and rare diamond
Upon thy brow.—I made them, I also
Made them be sought by thee; thou lack'st them not?
41
The wish to be aught else than nature forms.
“Know that the great Good in the age called First,
Beheld a world of mortals, 'mong whom none
Enquired for Truth, because no falsehood was:
Nature was truth: man held whate'er he wished:
No will was thwarted, and no deed was termed,
Good, Evil. In much wisdom is much grief.
He who increases knowledge sorrow also
Takes with it, till he rises unto me,
Knowing that I am in all, still the same:
Knowing that I am Peace in the contented.
I, Great, revealed unto the Seer, how man
Had wandered, and he gave a name and form
To my communings and he called it Veda.
To him who understands it is great gain—
Who understandeth not, to him the Sign
And ritual is authority and guide
A living and expiring confidence.”
The voice ceased, and the laborer strove no more.
Songs swoon amidst the roses of Cashmere,
India's dark-browed daughters as they weave
The leaves of marigolds with pinky hands,
Hymn their own Cama. Scarcely may his ear
Note the rich sound—and scarce his eyes perceive.
A deep and lasting slumber falls on him:
He spreads his limbs so wondrous in their grace
Upon the lulled shore for a lasting sleep.
The sun sinks down and wakes again to breathe
Vigor into the year: he slumbers on:
His regular breathing evermore exhales
Into the air, but his wild eye is closed,
And his arm listless drops upon the sand
Whose shelled things crawl around it in the cold.
Beheld a world of mortals, 'mong whom none
Enquired for Truth, because no falsehood was:
Nature was truth: man held whate'er he wished:
No will was thwarted, and no deed was termed,
Good, Evil. In much wisdom is much grief.
He who increases knowledge sorrow also
Takes with it, till he rises unto me,
Knowing that I am in all, still the same:
Knowing that I am Peace in the contented.
I, Great, revealed unto the Seer, how man
Had wandered, and he gave a name and form
To my communings and he called it Veda.
To him who understands it is great gain—
Who understandeth not, to him the Sign
And ritual is authority and guide
A living and expiring confidence.”
42
Songs swoon amidst the roses of Cashmere,
India's dark-browed daughters as they weave
The leaves of marigolds with pinky hands,
Hymn their own Cama. Scarcely may his ear
Note the rich sound—and scarce his eyes perceive.
A deep and lasting slumber falls on him:
He spreads his limbs so wondrous in their grace
Upon the lulled shore for a lasting sleep.
The sun sinks down and wakes again to breathe
Vigor into the year: he slumbers on:
His regular breathing evermore exhales
Into the air, but his wild eye is closed,
And his arm listless drops upon the sand
Whose shelled things crawl around it in the cold.
| The Year of the World | |