190 MYSTERIES:
LOVE. |
Kjobnhavn, January, ’97.
FEEL thee shudder, clinging to my arm,
Before the battlements of the salt sea,_:
Black billows tipped with phosphorescent light,
Towering from where we stand to yonder shore
That is no earthly shore, but guards the coast
Of that which is from that which is to be;
Wherefore it kindles no evasive fire
Nor blazes through the night, but lies forgotten
Gray in the twilight; never a star is out
To light the broad horizon ; only here
Behind us cluster lamps, and busy sounds
Of men proclaim a city; but to us
They are not here; for we, because we love,
Are not of earth, but, as the immortals, stand
With eyes immutable; our souls are fed
On a strange new nepenthe from the cup
Of the vast firmament. Nor do we dream,
Nor think we aught of the transient world,
But are absorbed in our own deity:
And our clear eyes reflect—who dares to gaze
Shall see and die—the changeless empyréan
Eternity, the concentrated void