Page:Poems Greenwell.djvu/185

Within its deep still opens! Night is kind
As is the Day, so one doth fold behind
Its light, and one in darkness shroud a worn
And spectral Realm; but now the veil was torn,
The gulf yawned wide, and down amid the waste
And leavings of existence, charred, defaced—
It sucked my soul; 'mid living agonies
I walked, on old disquietudes forlorn
I stumbled as I trode; I saw them rise
And point at me, a lifetime's mockeries,
The dreary phantasms of giants shorn
And crippled of their strength; on swords that gleamed
'Mid oozy weeds, deep bedded to their hilt,—
I gazed, and seemed no more like one that dreamed.
Once were these girt for valiant enterprise;
I know not now if it were sloth or guilt
That rusted them, for all things did perplex
My spirit, dragging it among the wrecks
Of heart and brain; hard stony eyes were set
On mine, with endless questionings that met
No answer;

No answer; Then I know not how the strife
Gave way; and passing through that outer court
Of giddy cries confused, I gained the shrine
Where sleep is kindest, holiest: too divine
Those eyes of hers for sadness, and for sport
Her brow too tender! Then she laid on mine
Her hand, she pressed it with a hallowed sign,—
And all its throbbings vanished;