The Year of the World A Philosophical Poem on "Redemption from The Fall". By William B. Scott |
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| I. | PART FIRST.
THE GOLDEN AGE. |
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 | The Year of the World |  |
I. PART FIRST. THE GOLDEN AGE.
Instinctive Life. The descent into Consciousness, and the separation of the active Understanding from the transcendent faculty that dwells only in the light of the Spirit.
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I.
Some depth unknown, some inner life unlived,
Some thirst unslaked, some hunger which no food
Gathered from earthly thorn or by the knife
In gory shambles stricken can allay,—
Man hopes for or endeavors against hope:
Still hath endeavored; by the law of life
Looking still on; still toiling for some rest
Passing the understanding. This great faith
Who hath not felt? Who hath not in an hour
Of august consciousness beheld descend
Around him (as the exile on the rock
Of Patmos) this Jerusalem, although night
Shut round him as before, and the cold moon
Passed over the horizon of his soul?
And ye past centuries! since the infant-god,
The child-man hath kept count of these his thoughts—
Which of ye hath not heard the loud acclaim,—
Seen the palm leaves spread some Redeemer's path
Leading the way to peace? For ever on
The hope, the toil is borne, and the great torch
Transmitted burns more bright from every tomb.
Some thirst unslaked, some hunger which no food
Gathered from earthly thorn or by the knife
In gory shambles stricken can allay,—
Man hopes for or endeavors against hope:
Still hath endeavored; by the law of life
Looking still on; still toiling for some rest
Passing the understanding. This great faith
Who hath not felt? Who hath not in an hour
Of august consciousness beheld descend
Around him (as the exile on the rock
Of Patmos) this Jerusalem, although night
Shut round him as before, and the cold moon
Passed over the horizon of his soul?
And ye past centuries! since the infant-god,
The child-man hath kept count of these his thoughts—
Which of ye hath not heard the loud acclaim,—
Seen the palm leaves spread some Redeemer's path
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The hope, the toil is borne, and the great torch
Transmitted burns more bright from every tomb.
Some good there is man strives for. This long strife
Through darkness, and in mythos, and in faith,
And in the aggrandizement of self, and in
The weary work of knowledge—shows itself,
Varying yet the same—not pausing, save
To gather strength or garner in the past;
Or turning like the gleaner—not despairing
But in the fear of loss, and oftentimes
Trembling with revelation, but too blind
To learn the many-sided Simpleness
So closely round him, hath the symbol risen
To be the god, and mystery been enshrined—
Domes built with art more perfect than the creed,
Garnished with marble truth, and altars red
With living sacrifice, and rites prescribed,
On days divine, vestments and light of lamps,
Choral rejoicings, censers through whose pores
Issue fine odours, old age ministering
Darkly before a visible sign—that thus
The pain of doubt be felt no more—that thus
We may hold fast the good, draw angels down,
And walk in the cool shades with God in Eden.
Through darkness, and in mythos, and in faith,
And in the aggrandizement of self, and in
The weary work of knowledge—shows itself,
Varying yet the same—not pausing, save
To gather strength or garner in the past;
Or turning like the gleaner—not despairing
But in the fear of loss, and oftentimes
Trembling with revelation, but too blind
To learn the many-sided Simpleness
So closely round him, hath the symbol risen
To be the god, and mystery been enshrined—
Domes built with art more perfect than the creed,
Garnished with marble truth, and altars red
With living sacrifice, and rites prescribed,
On days divine, vestments and light of lamps,
Choral rejoicings, censers through whose pores
Issue fine odours, old age ministering
Darkly before a visible sign—that thus
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We may hold fast the good, draw angels down,
And walk in the cool shades with God in Eden.
And thus the Hierarch of the Phantasy
This shattered image of the soul reforms
By sensuous tools—and man adores himself—
But everlasting fate holds all; and time
Scatters the chaff as doth the winnowing fan
After the wearied flail. Not this, not this!
Each age repeats, productive not the less;
Exploring still the more; till half the world
Finds wisdom in negation—and a truth
That there is no truth—ending like the search
Of Ceres in the Eleusinian verse,
Who passed with skirt succint through many lands
And over many seas with numerous tears
And prayers for her fair daughter, whom she found
After her mournful tears and prayers no more
Able to rise to Enna and the sun.
This shattered image of the soul reforms
By sensuous tools—and man adores himself—
But everlasting fate holds all; and time
Scatters the chaff as doth the winnowing fan
After the wearied flail. Not this, not this!
Each age repeats, productive not the less;
Exploring still the more; till half the world
Finds wisdom in negation—and a truth
That there is no truth—ending like the search
Of Ceres in the Eleusinian verse,
Who passed with skirt succint through many lands
And over many seas with numerous tears
And prayers for her fair daughter, whom she found
After her mournful tears and prayers no more
Able to rise to Enna and the sun.
Nathless the great idea reigneth still;
The tendency hath neither swerve nor stay;
In all things we behold objective selves,
Part of us yet against us, and within
Kingliness yet unsceptred, and by night
Pillars of fire!
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In all things we behold objective selves,
Part of us yet against us, and within
Kingliness yet unsceptred, and by night
Pillars of fire!
II.
In the unknown awakening of the morn,
When the red light was in the east, (if east
There was, from whence the first day-dawn arose,)
And the true forms of gods lived everywhere,
Whose shadows yet some mortal minds discern
From time to time; in this fair year, within
An island now unknown, the tree of life
Beside the home of the Unseen did grow;
A boy, Lyremmos, fed upon its fruits,
A maiden, Mneme, lived within that home—
Then time was not, nor was there any past,
Nor any distance, for the infinite leaves
Of that great tree were over all the heaven;
And depths were on each side, and yet no depths,
For spirits filled them all.
When the red light was in the east, (if east
There was, from whence the first day-dawn arose,)
And the true forms of gods lived everywhere,
Whose shadows yet some mortal minds discern
From time to time; in this fair year, within
An island now unknown, the tree of life
Beside the home of the Unseen did grow;
A boy, Lyremmos, fed upon its fruits,
A maiden, Mneme, lived within that home—
Then time was not, nor was there any past,
Nor any distance, for the infinite leaves
Of that great tree were over all the heaven;
And depths were on each side, and yet no depths,
For spirits filled them all.
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Before that boy
Three visible forms advance, a vanward three
Of endless throngs that until now had been
Unseen by him. One from the sea, and one
Exhaled as from the earth, and from above
Another came: and lo! he trembled—then
Stricken as by a terror he fell back,
And an unspeakable change on all those spirits
Drew them back from him, downward and still back
Sinking and fading, as the dew of even
Sinks down into the herbs with dusk and cold.
Three visible forms advance, a vanward three
Of endless throngs that until now had been
Unseen by him. One from the sea, and one
Exhaled as from the earth, and from above
Another came: and lo! he trembled—then
Stricken as by a terror he fell back,
And an unspeakable change on all those spirits
Drew them back from him, downward and still back
Sinking and fading, as the dew of even
Sinks down into the herbs with dusk and cold.
Upon a couch of shining leaves, the nest
Of many lovely snakes, the man-boy lay,
Silent and motionless and without breath:
It might be centuries, it might be throbs
Of the sun's pulse I know not, but the eye
Of Brama opened only through the lapse
Of a thousand years. His luminous limbs gave light
Around him over all the leaves, and throngs
Of insects none have ever seen since then
Approached about his hair; still moved he not
But gazed right upward, as a dead man's eye
Looks and yet sees not. In this trance he knew
Cycles of ages with their phantoms pass
Out of him, as if he had been all these.
“Are they, or are they not? those spirits that come
Answering to no voice, those snakes, and I,
Am I, or am I not?” he asked, with pauses
Of silence, underneath those ample leaves
That now were shrinking. Then the sky expanded
With many clouds, and rays of white sunshine,
And he was many—not one naked youth
But many, each adorned with various tires,
Not all in equal beauty yet all fair,
And on good offices intent, attended
By beasts and all that had the gift of life—
Such offices as the spirits erst fulfilled
Whom now he saw not—and his sister Mneme
Was beside each in every act—not one
But now a thousand sisters, yet unchanged
By any new adornment, in all place
And act, beside himself with like intent
To his; but soon her utter perfectness
Seemed to remove her from his sphere. In time,
Proceeding as the stars proceed at eve,
More visions were evolved, and from a land
Of white flowers, soft and noiseless-footed beings
Floated with rhythmic motion, more and more
Towards him, then with both hands each one raised
Her yard-long hair, and lo, the eyes of women,
The light upon the passionate face of joy—
The bosom warm of mundane love!
Of many lovely snakes, the man-boy lay,
Silent and motionless and without breath:
It might be centuries, it might be throbs
Of the sun's pulse I know not, but the eye
Of Brama opened only through the lapse
Of a thousand years. His luminous limbs gave light
Around him over all the leaves, and throngs
Of insects none have ever seen since then
Approached about his hair; still moved he not
But gazed right upward, as a dead man's eye
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Cycles of ages with their phantoms pass
Out of him, as if he had been all these.
“Are they, or are they not? those spirits that come
Answering to no voice, those snakes, and I,
Am I, or am I not?” he asked, with pauses
Of silence, underneath those ample leaves
That now were shrinking. Then the sky expanded
With many clouds, and rays of white sunshine,
And he was many—not one naked youth
But many, each adorned with various tires,
Not all in equal beauty yet all fair,
And on good offices intent, attended
By beasts and all that had the gift of life—
Such offices as the spirits erst fulfilled
Whom now he saw not—and his sister Mneme
Was beside each in every act—not one
But now a thousand sisters, yet unchanged
By any new adornment, in all place
And act, beside himself with like intent
To his; but soon her utter perfectness
Seemed to remove her from his sphere. In time,
Proceeding as the stars proceed at eve,
More visions were evolved, and from a land
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Floated with rhythmic motion, more and more
Towards him, then with both hands each one raised
Her yard-long hair, and lo, the eyes of women,
The light upon the passionate face of joy—
The bosom warm of mundane love!
From thence
He took no note of aught as heretofore,
A unity in multitude; but now
The term of his cognizance was twofold,
The motive and the act; the outward nay,
The inward affirmation—He, the gifted;
She, the true answering beauty—
He took no note of aught as heretofore,
A unity in multitude; but now
The term of his cognizance was twofold,
The motive and the act; the outward nay,
The inward affirmation—He, the gifted;
She, the true answering beauty—
III.
Pause awhile
In this grave argument (as poets term
The tenor of their tales) till between thee,
Reader, and I the writer, some few words
Be said. In truth I look up from my page,
And smile—no smile of self complacency,
For not with steel on stone, by hieroglyphs
Shadowed, nor with cithera sung, nor spoken
With apostolic singleness as of old,
This shadowing of the most august first time—
This speculation of the course of ages—
Is fashioned; but with watchful care of words
The artist now compiles; and with the steps
Of analytic consciousness he goes—
Backward and forward goes the theorist,
Upon his Seerath-bridge: and round him men
Whose time is parcelled into hours, (the clock,
The town-clock, at this instant you may hear
Telling the lapse exact of this day's transit,)
Scarce steady themselves an instant without price,
Bent constantly on short dates and per cents.
And I would not be quite apart from such;
They bear the latest social form, and Change
Acts through them nobly, and conventions thicken
Net-like so thick, that it may be, ere long,
We can no further be removed from nature.
But more—about this room from whence I see
The innumerable snow-flakes wandering down
Upon the sapless boughs and turfless ground,—
Are many books, three thousand years of books;
Elora, Mount Sinai, and the Porch,
Are printed there, and wordy condensations
Making eclectic garments for quick thinkers:
And poets, eyes of time, observers only;
And of all these the earliest still the best.
Nor are those walls of other histories void,
Things sacred from the hand of art are here,
Penates from the Nile, Pompeian pictures,
Masks—that of Homer, and of the Redeemer
Traced from an altar magnified by pilgrims.
And in this presence touch I pen and pencil—
And in this presence dare I theorize
Even of the infinite and the real!
In this grave argument (as poets term
The tenor of their tales) till between thee,
Reader, and I the writer, some few words
Be said. In truth I look up from my page,
And smile—no smile of self complacency,
For not with steel on stone, by hieroglyphs
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With apostolic singleness as of old,
This shadowing of the most august first time—
This speculation of the course of ages—
Is fashioned; but with watchful care of words
The artist now compiles; and with the steps
Of analytic consciousness he goes—
Backward and forward goes the theorist,
Upon his Seerath-bridge: and round him men
Whose time is parcelled into hours, (the clock,
The town-clock, at this instant you may hear
Telling the lapse exact of this day's transit,)
Scarce steady themselves an instant without price,
Bent constantly on short dates and per cents.
And I would not be quite apart from such;
They bear the latest social form, and Change
Acts through them nobly, and conventions thicken
Net-like so thick, that it may be, ere long,
We can no further be removed from nature.
But more—about this room from whence I see
The innumerable snow-flakes wandering down
Upon the sapless boughs and turfless ground,—
Are many books, three thousand years of books;
Elora, Mount Sinai, and the Porch,
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Making eclectic garments for quick thinkers:
And poets, eyes of time, observers only;
And of all these the earliest still the best.
Nor are those walls of other histories void,
Things sacred from the hand of art are here,
Penates from the Nile, Pompeian pictures,
Masks—that of Homer, and of the Redeemer
Traced from an altar magnified by pilgrims.
And in this presence touch I pen and pencil—
And in this presence dare I theorize
Even of the infinite and the real!
Friend reader, is the north wind cold? bring coals
Unto the sinking embers till new flames
Crackle and leap; in this we are agreed,
Yesterday's fires no second heats exhale.
Is not the Past all gone, and code or myth
Treatise or history that now remain
Are but the chambers whence the Spirits passed
Into the world of Deeds, through which to work
In infinite mutation to the present:
As circles on the water still expand
When the dead stone that caused them lies below.
I speak not of the poet; wisdom even
Is like a giant's garment borne but once;
As was the cross of Jesus, after whom
Who followeth bears a cross but not like his;
Not more like his than did the labourers
Whom crowned Saint Helen guided in their search
Till they exhumed the holy wood? Was not
The impulse vital from which those wise works
Proceeded; went it not abroad then, searching
Into the roots of action?—thought no more,
But action—antiquating the embalméd word
Which was its voice at first. Woe unto him
Who sees not this, alas for him that thwarts it!
Unto the sinking embers till new flames
Crackle and leap; in this we are agreed,
Yesterday's fires no second heats exhale.
Is not the Past all gone, and code or myth
Treatise or history that now remain
Are but the chambers whence the Spirits passed
Into the world of Deeds, through which to work
In infinite mutation to the present:
As circles on the water still expand
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I speak not of the poet; wisdom even
Is like a giant's garment borne but once;
As was the cross of Jesus, after whom
Who followeth bears a cross but not like his;
Not more like his than did the labourers
Whom crowned Saint Helen guided in their search
Till they exhumed the holy wood? Was not
The impulse vital from which those wise works
Proceeded; went it not abroad then, searching
Into the roots of action?—thought no more,
But action—antiquating the embalméd word
Which was its voice at first. Woe unto him
Who sees not this, alas for him that thwarts it!
IV.
“Lyremmos, whereHidden or wandering art thou? I have sought
Throughout thy haunts and found thee not in any.
Answer, Lyremmos! the calm sea is blue,
And from the porch gleams dismal cold, and dark;
The kind sunbeams shoot no more through the stems
Of the living woods, nor any one of all
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Keeps the still evening wakeful.”—“Mark that star,
Sister, it is a lovely thing, and well
May I have lingered watching its increase.
I have had clouds about me—Thoughts, strange thoughts;
I know not what they were, and call them thoughts:
I never singled out one star before,
But looked upon them all unheedingly.
I have been far away with throbbing pulses,
And terrible joy, and almost utter absorption;—
Art thou assuredly my sister still,
After those ages and those changes all—?
When first I laid me here, and on that roof
Of the great leafage of the tree of life
I fixed my eye, the upper light made shine
Their veinéd green like fire. At first that star
Was scarcely brighter than the heaven around,
And as the near grew darker, it, the distant,
Peered eminently out. My sister! thou
Hast been a guardian to me—from the first
Birth of my memory thou art to me
As that star still increasing in delight
Is to the sky—oh, far more governing!
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Since I have known none other counsellor,—
For those fair spirits who were wont to throng
About us were but servants, and within
Our central home, our shrine, I cannot ask.
Am I not now a conscious God, yet mad;
A snake, but without instinct; a mere question,
With ever-bursting heart, and must remain so
Until I re-arrange those tumults, powers—
External to me, yet reciprocal,
To which I am subjected, yet free born.”
—‘Brother! we have been happy 'till this hour,
Happy as all around us; be thou still
A boy!” she cried, and shaded back his hair
To look into his eyes, and held his hand
Up to her neck, and bent her pliant form
Down to him even 'till her breast met his.
“Be still a boy!” she said as they lay still,
Her yellow sandal by his foot, her arm
With its slim bracelet lifting up his hand,
His eye upon the heaven, and hers on his.
And thus replied he. “Would it might be so!
But 'tis a foolish wish, though thou art old
To my mere youth. 'Tis happiness I seek,
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Enjoyed because I know it for my own—
That whate'er is should be. Now tell me why,
Maternal Sister, tell me why this garb—”
And lo! he had the insignia of Osiris
Upon his head, upon his loins, and arms!
“There is some strange deformity abroad
From this our home, and I, who midst these sweets
Have swam till now, can reconcile it not;
Nor will! But nature whilst I slept has borne
Me up to manhood, and I wake to search
For what was constant in my heart before.”
“Be still a boy!” she tremulously breathed,
Scarce heard by him, although her brow was pressed
Upon his neck. While thus they lay, the voice
Of some bird sheltered in the dark arose,
Rose clear and loud—then silent was for ever.
V.
They passed into the temple, and with soft
Brow-kisses parted, as if all had been
Past and dispelled, a transient influence
From twilight and the depths of wolfish woods.
But he looked out again upon the sea
Sounding alone. A life like that in sleep
Flowed throughout all: a change had fallen on him!
He pondered,—thought upon his thoughts! Alas,
He saw not where the waves of this new sea
Pursued their unseen tides: if onward still
Wave followed wave beyond the sea bird's flight,
Or where from its cave loosed, the salt-weed floats,
Darkling for ever: or if some high land
Might slope its pearly strand unto his keel,
Where rainbow-hued, like our retreating storms,
Beautiful things might live, beside the courts
Of Vesper's slumber and the Moon's repose.
What place in this new world will her smile cheer?
Sweet Sister Mneme! shall she be with him
Wherever he may be? so thought he, with
A fond remorse that he had ever willed
To leave her. Thou wilt be a spirit throughout
The air he breathes: thou wilt sit on the prow
And smile on him while his hand guides the helm
Through the revulsion of the cloven waves.
Thy song will blend with his, if happily
He finds a paradise, a sheltered nook
From that new pain, that glimpse of knowledge now
Streaking his silvery happiness with blood.
Brow-kisses parted, as if all had been
Past and dispelled, a transient influence
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But he looked out again upon the sea
Sounding alone. A life like that in sleep
Flowed throughout all: a change had fallen on him!
He pondered,—thought upon his thoughts! Alas,
He saw not where the waves of this new sea
Pursued their unseen tides: if onward still
Wave followed wave beyond the sea bird's flight,
Or where from its cave loosed, the salt-weed floats,
Darkling for ever: or if some high land
Might slope its pearly strand unto his keel,
Where rainbow-hued, like our retreating storms,
Beautiful things might live, beside the courts
Of Vesper's slumber and the Moon's repose.
What place in this new world will her smile cheer?
Sweet Sister Mneme! shall she be with him
Wherever he may be? so thought he, with
A fond remorse that he had ever willed
To leave her. Thou wilt be a spirit throughout
The air he breathes: thou wilt sit on the prow
And smile on him while his hand guides the helm
Through the revulsion of the cloven waves.
Thy song will blend with his, if happily
He finds a paradise, a sheltered nook
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Streaking his silvery happiness with blood.
No sound of feet was on the awful floor
Of the interior of the shrine, all dark
That shrine which cannot be described or known.
A tripod-lamp stood there: behold a light,—
An arrow head of flame, sprang up from thence,
Scarce strong enough to make the slim shaft seen,
And a fair hand that hovered over it
With animating oil. The fair hand bears
The tripod through the darkness. Mneme bends
Upon the curtained steps, and with her hands
On the flower-hidden feet beseechingly
Up to the mighty Goodness smiles, and speaks.
Of the interior of the shrine, all dark
That shrine which cannot be described or known.
A tripod-lamp stood there: behold a light,—
An arrow head of flame, sprang up from thence,
Scarce strong enough to make the slim shaft seen,
And a fair hand that hovered over it
With animating oil. The fair hand bears
The tripod through the darkness. Mneme bends
Upon the curtained steps, and with her hands
On the flower-hidden feet beseechingly
Up to the mighty Goodness smiles, and speaks.
“Spirit supreme of all!
To whom all turn with re-inspired acclaim
And eyes refreshed; apart from whom our life
Wanes into the inane, thou who art here
Sheltered among the darknesses of birth,
Yet vivid now before me with white light
Looking into my wishes. Thou whose breath
Made vital all the air of this wide world,
From thenceforth musical with bird in spring,
And beast, and insect in the drowse of even,
And the young gods who guide the change of days,
And lover's songs with stringed art less rich,
Wandering in child-like beauty of their own.
Before whose advent there were none of these,
But moanings passed along the yeast of waves,
Where cumberous death rolled sightless through the dense
And slimy waste. Ideal power! whose form
Is here before mine eyes in living truth,—
Evermore varying with infinite changes
As hopes or fears prevail in this poor heart;
Thou who inspiredst the creative hand
Of nature, (may I not irreverently
Speak such great verity?)—whom I have served
From everlasting, and thereby have lived
Here where Uranus' children come, all clothed
With the ineffable light of trusting worship,
And wonderful voices that declare all things,
Without articulate words of hymn or prayer:
Round whom they circling dance mysteriously,
With chaplets on their arms, and ministering doves,
That enter white-winged through thy shrine at will,—
Light on thine altars—or with thirsting bills
Break the clear waters that refresh thy flowers,—
Spirit! oh, fold him in thy starry robe
Again, and make him thine and mine unchanged,
(Although he cannot understand me now,)
As he hath been! hide from him the new shore
He longs for; hide the hopes, the fears, of which
I nothing know but that they are not thine.”
She ceased: her brother knelt upon the step
Beneath: he held her hand with both his own,
And won her earnest gaze to his own face
Which by his gloomy hair was almost hidden.
“Weave me a tunic, sister, through black storm,
If need be, I may wear; a sandal firm
Fashion for me, that may keep whole these feet
For many a stadium of travel; yea,
Through burning soil or shell-strewn deeps. Alas!
Mneme, my sister, henceforth wilt thou be
A memory alone, for thou can'st not.—
And this deep shrine, doth it not blind me now,
I have grown callous to the power thou feel'st—
The perfectness of silence, the profound—
Those beautiful great limbs, are they not stone—
Marble, and fire, and gold—I see them not—
They are withdrawn, sister! where art thou! still,
I see the dark trees, and the stars, the sea,
All things without the porch—but nought within—
The winds arise, the shadows of lions pass,
A voice is in the air, and from beneath
A sound of thunder comes. I am alone.”
To whom all turn with re-inspired acclaim
And eyes refreshed; apart from whom our life
Wanes into the inane, thou who art here
Sheltered among the darknesses of birth,
Yet vivid now before me with white light
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Made vital all the air of this wide world,
From thenceforth musical with bird in spring,
And beast, and insect in the drowse of even,
And the young gods who guide the change of days,
And lover's songs with stringed art less rich,
Wandering in child-like beauty of their own.
Before whose advent there were none of these,
But moanings passed along the yeast of waves,
Where cumberous death rolled sightless through the dense
And slimy waste. Ideal power! whose form
Is here before mine eyes in living truth,—
Evermore varying with infinite changes
As hopes or fears prevail in this poor heart;
Thou who inspiredst the creative hand
Of nature, (may I not irreverently
Speak such great verity?)—whom I have served
From everlasting, and thereby have lived
Here where Uranus' children come, all clothed
With the ineffable light of trusting worship,
And wonderful voices that declare all things,
Without articulate words of hymn or prayer:
Round whom they circling dance mysteriously,
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That enter white-winged through thy shrine at will,—
Light on thine altars—or with thirsting bills
Break the clear waters that refresh thy flowers,—
Spirit! oh, fold him in thy starry robe
Again, and make him thine and mine unchanged,
(Although he cannot understand me now,)
As he hath been! hide from him the new shore
He longs for; hide the hopes, the fears, of which
I nothing know but that they are not thine.”
She ceased: her brother knelt upon the step
Beneath: he held her hand with both his own,
And won her earnest gaze to his own face
Which by his gloomy hair was almost hidden.
“Weave me a tunic, sister, through black storm,
If need be, I may wear; a sandal firm
Fashion for me, that may keep whole these feet
For many a stadium of travel; yea,
Through burning soil or shell-strewn deeps. Alas!
Mneme, my sister, henceforth wilt thou be
A memory alone, for thou can'st not.—
And this deep shrine, doth it not blind me now,
I have grown callous to the power thou feel'st—
The perfectness of silence, the profound—
22
Marble, and fire, and gold—I see them not—
They are withdrawn, sister! where art thou! still,
I see the dark trees, and the stars, the sea,
All things without the porch—but nought within—
The winds arise, the shadows of lions pass,
A voice is in the air, and from beneath
A sound of thunder comes. I am alone.”
| The Year of the World | |