The Venture/A Phial

by John Gray

A PHIAL.

 

This precious bubble of the antique world,As light as lifted foam, as frail as breath,Endured when empires died a desperate death,When heaven on earth, when tower on tower was hurled.

Hues of a beetle's temporary wingHave grown on this in centuries of slime;Dials have told a rosary of timeFor every nuance of this feeble thing.

Were it devised at first for costly balm,The distillation of a summer's fee,To sweeten some "Ah sweet, I dote on thee,"And over all there lies a common calm. . . .

No more, no more the heavy branches dripAnother fragrance to the tangled moss,Translucent insects flamed and hummed across;The sleep they soothed is grown eternal sleep.

It mocks indeed, it is not wholly dumb,The insect's fiery wing; and, listening wellAgainst the margin of this tell-tale shell,There wakes the memory of a distant hum.

Drowse on, drowse on until I come again;Or sleep, or sleep for ever, evermore;We are like men who halt upon a shore,Whose thoughts go forward and whose feet remain.

JOHN GRAY.