Poems (Jones)/Morta

by Amanda Theodosia Jones

MORTA.

ITHER some conquering magnet brings My soul, from shadowed haunts of Time: Up through an empty space I climb—I soar, and yet I wear no wings.

I pause, yet feel no earth beneath; I see nor sun nor moon nor star; I hear no murmurous seas afar;I breathe no zephyr's perfumed breath.

Yet now a humming in my ears,— A woful, wailing, wild refrain; As if the Night, aware of wane,Lamenting, woke the silent spheres.

And lo! a radiance intense Spreads far and wide; so very white, It seems the spirit of a lightDivorced by spirit-law from sense.

By spirit-law is given to me The excellence of spirit-sight: Ensphered by this undazzling light,A silent, smileless group I see.

Two white-garbed spinners at a wheel Whence constant, mad complainings flow; And One, whose task I may not know,Nor its significance unseal.

An ebon crown, of regal mold, Circles the grandeur of her head; The whiteness of her robe is dread;And she is wan and very old.

No wind is in her silver hair; No breath from her pale mouth exhales: Yet, toward me, while she slowly sails,My soul her answering speech will dare.

O woman of the shrouded eye, Of frigid mien and ashen brow, Speak: wherefore, whence, and who art thou?Resolve this threefold mystery.

"By this calm brow—most dreary calm! By this white cheek—most deathly white!  By this closed eye that knows no sight,Sister, thou readest all I am.

"From Time's dark fleece grave Nona's hand Draws out the slender thread of life; Whirling the humming wheel of strife,Decima winds the tortured strand.

"But I am Morta,—she who rends, With instant touch its length in twain; And there is no more bliss nor painForever, when the spinning ends.

"Who hears my solemn words, must rise And follow, follow where I lead: A captive, never to be freed,With voiceless throat and sightless eyes."

And art thou Morta? O most rare, Most piercing melody of voice! As if the heart had sung, "Rejoice!"Even while the lips had wailed "Despair!"

Nona, arise; put by the fleece,— Life fails with torture overmuch; Stay, Decima, thy guiding touch,And let the troublous spinning cease:

Morta, I hear—I follow thee; I hold thee by thy robe of snow: Yet go where thou canst never go,And see what thou canst never see.

A fleece of shining white unrolled; A wheel whose turning has no end; A joinèd thread thou canst not rend,And One the gleaming strand doth hold.

Softly the singing wheel revolves; Softly my heart sings evermore: While, learned in Life's seraphic lore,Death's threefold mystery it solves.