140 MYSTERIES:
The world of dreams and shadows, not impearled
With solitary shaft of Truth. Too sweet,
O children of the Night,
Are your wide realms for our philosophers,
Who must in hard gray balance-shackles bind
The essence of all thought :
No sorrier sexton in a grave inters
The nobler children of a poet’s mind
Of wine and gold well wrought.
By the poor sense of touch they judge that this
Or that is real or not. Have they divined
This simplest spirit-bond,
The joy of some bad woman’s deadly kiss ;
The thought-flash that well tunes a lover’s mind
Seas and gray gulfs beyond ?
So that which is impalpable to touch,
They judge by touch; the viewless they decide
By sight ; their logic fails,
Their jarring jargon jingles—even such
An empty brazen pot—wise men deride
The clouds that mimic whales.
My world shall be my dreams. Religion there
And duty may disturb me not at all ;
Nor doubts, nor fear of death.
I straddle on no haggard ghostly mare ;
Yea, through my God, I have leapt o’er a wall !
(As poet David saith.)