'For every worm beneath the moon
Draws different threads, and late and soon
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.

'Cry, faint not: either Truth is born
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn,
Or in the gateways of the morn.

'Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope Beyond the furthest flights of hope, Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope.

'Sometimes a little corner shines, As over rainy mist inclines

A gleaming crag with belts of pines.

'I will go forward, sayest thou,

I shall not fail to find her now.
Look up, the fold is on her brow.

'If straight thy track, or if oblique,

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Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike,

Embracing cloud, Ixion-like;

And owning but a little more Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, Calling thyself a little lower

"Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl! Why inch by inch to darkness crawl? There is one remedy for all.'

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'He heeded not reviling tones, Nor sold his heart to idle moans, Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised with stones;

'But looking upward, full of grace,
He pray'd, and from a happy place
God's glory smote him on the face.'

The sullen answer slid betwixt:
Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd,
The elements were kindlier mix'd.'

I said: 'I toil beneath the curse,
But, knowing not the universe,
I fear to slide from bad to worse;

And that, in seeking to undo
One riddle, and to find the true,
I knit a hundred others new;

'Or that this anguish fleeting hence, Unmanacled from bonds of sense, Be fix'd and frozen to permanence:

'For I go, weak from suffering here; Naked I go, and void of cheer: What is it that I may not fear?'

'Consider well,' the voice replied,

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'His face, that two hours since hath died; Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride?

'And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

'Much more, if first I floated free, As naked essence, must I be Incompetent of memory;

For memory dealing but with time, And he with matter, could she climb Beyond her own material prime?

'Moreover, something is or seems, That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams

'Of something felt, like something here; Of something done, I know not where; Such as no language may declare.'

The still voice laugh'd. 'Not with thy dreams. Thy pain is a reality.'

เ

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I talk,' said he, Suffice it thee

'But thou,' said I, 'hast missed thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark.

Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new?

'Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long'd for death.

'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, O, life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want.'

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