THE HOLY OF HOLIES. 
117 
The cry of silence, that is heard unspoken ; 
That, being heard, rings evermore unbroken. 
 
Silence, deep silence.  Not a shudder stirs 
 The vast demesne of unforgetful space : 
No comet’s lunatic rush, no meteor whirs, 
 No star dares breathe, no planet knows his place 
In that supreme unquiet quietude. 
I am the master of my own deep mood. 
 
I am the master.  Yea, no doubt I rule 
 The whole mad universe by will extended— 
Who whispers then, “ O miserable fool ! 
 This night thy might and majesty are ended ; 
Thy soul shall be required of thee ” ?  I heard 
This voice, and knew it for my proper word ! 
 
Yes, mine own voice :  the higher spirit speaks, 
 Stemming the hands that guide, the arms that hold, 
Even the infinite brain :  that spirit seeks 
 A loftier dawn of more ephemeral gold— 
Ephemeral, and eternal :  droop thine head, 
O God !  for thou must suffer this :  I said ! 
 
Droop thy wide pinions, O thou mortal God ! 
 Sink thy vast forehead, and let Life consume 
The miserable life thy feet have trod 
 Beneath them, that thine own life in its doom 
Fall, in its resurrection to arise ; 
Stoop, that its holier hope may cleave the skies.