Wherefore, poor Fool, dost lie—
Love, cap and bells put by—
On thy pallet-bed so stark?
“I am girt, soul and limb,
Gainst horror dim.
Ear tense to hark
Mine eyeballs strain and swim
Drowning in foamy dark.
Comes no shock
Nor earthly feet
But the heart’s blood, ebb’d with the chill tower-clock
To a single beat,
Clots to a fear
That God may appear—
None other eye being near—
And bare of his mantle of law
Stand, a giant Spirit beautiful
Sombre, pale, in avenging mail,
Wings folded, on this planet’s skull;
And before Him dropping like fine rain,
A veil o’ the cloud o’ the dust of kings
Noiseless descending the old Abyss ...
Ah then, after this
How gentle through the dark paths of the brain
Comes the faint noise of outer things;
The whirr and shower of wings—
Satin shufflings of ivy leaves
Ranging like bees the leaden pane—
Jolting of carters, cries of falconers—
The blessed courtyard stirs
That do in mercy say
Thou hast another day.”