The Year of the World A Philosophical Poem on "Redemption from The Fall". By William B. Scott |
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 | The Year of the World |  |
47
I.
And sleeps he still, the Man melodious-tongued,
He, born of harmony in heaven's depths
And primal light—Lyremmos, sleeps he still
Like the young god upon the lotus leaf,
Floating in silence through a waveless calm?
Or like a child who hath no hurt nor grief,
Nestling between the breasts of its great mother?
No sleep was his like that, for evil airs
Brought dreams continuous over him, a flock
Endless, and shadowing with their unbound skirts
The sunlight and the moon. And he arose
With open eye that saw not, still constrained
To do as heretofore he had done: then,
Stood still in perilous wakefulness and fear,
Shuddering as if he stood upon the edge
Of an annihilation, lest that speech
Which issued from the Ganges might gain strength
Over him. But it could not be: “Ah, Ha!”
He cried anon, “is not the power whose voice
Uttered these words, himself the furthest off
From this unconscious heaven! or shall my strife
And labor have an end without a goal,
An end without acquirement, a mere sleep?
He, born of harmony in heaven's depths
And primal light—Lyremmos, sleeps he still
Like the young god upon the lotus leaf,
Floating in silence through a waveless calm?
Or like a child who hath no hurt nor grief,
Nestling between the breasts of its great mother?
No sleep was his like that, for evil airs
Brought dreams continuous over him, a flock
Endless, and shadowing with their unbound skirts
The sunlight and the moon. And he arose
With open eye that saw not, still constrained
To do as heretofore he had done: then,
Stood still in perilous wakefulness and fear,
Shuddering as if he stood upon the edge
Of an annihilation, lest that speech
Which issued from the Ganges might gain strength
Over him. But it could not be: “Ah, Ha!”
48
Uttered these words, himself the furthest off
From this unconscious heaven! or shall my strife
And labor have an end without a goal,
An end without acquirement, a mere sleep?
“Be this my trust, that it is not in vain
From step to step I have emerged thus far,
That not in vain those questions rise within—
From whence? and whither? for what end am I?
That this soul-travail is not all in vain,
That all is well, and that the Will to rise
Shall be creative of the power, shall cause
The wing to shoot that I may reascend
Through sign and sphere unto my native home.
But where is home? I know not, but must know—
And I am wandering for it now, have wandered
Long as I can remember, still anon,
Raising a loud rejoicing as I meet
Some glimmering sign, or hear some demon-voice
Muttering in the night.”
From step to step I have emerged thus far,
That not in vain those questions rise within—
From whence? and whither? for what end am I?
That this soul-travail is not all in vain,
That all is well, and that the Will to rise
Shall be creative of the power, shall cause
The wing to shoot that I may reascend
Through sign and sphere unto my native home.
But where is home? I know not, but must know—
And I am wandering for it now, have wandered
Long as I can remember, still anon,
Raising a loud rejoicing as I meet
Some glimmering sign, or hear some demon-voice
Muttering in the night.”
| The Year of the World | |