THE BURNING

WHEEL

BY

ALDOUS HUXLEY

Oxford

B. H. Blackwell, Broad St.

1916

ADVENTURERS ALL

A SERIES OF YOUNG POETS UNKNOWN TO FAME

COME MY FRIENDS—‘TIS NOT TOO LATE “TO SEEK A NEWER WORLD

—IT MAY BE THAT THE GULFS WILL WAN US DOWN—IT MAY BE WE

SHALL TOUCH THE HAPPY ISLES—YET—OUR PURPOSE HOLDS—TO

SAIL BEYOND THE SUNSET.

ULYSSES

SPEECH FINELY FRAMED DELIGHTETH THE EARS OF THEM THAT HEAR THE STORY

—II MACCAB. XV.

My thanks are due to the Editor of the Nation for permission to reprint “The Mirror,” “Variations on a theme of Laforgue” and “Philosophy.”

CONTENTS.

The Burning Wheel

Doors of the Temple

Villiers de L’Isle-Adams

Darkness

Mole

The Two Seasons

Two Realities

Quotidian Vision

Vision

The Mirror

Variations on a Theme of Laforgue Philosophy

Philoclea in the Forest

Books and Thoughts

Contrary to Nature and Aristotle Escape

The Garden

The Canal

The Ideal found wanting

Misplaced Love

Sonnet

Sentimental Summer

The Choice

The Higher Sensualism

Sonnet

Formal Verses

Perils of the Small Hours

Complaint

Return to an Old Home

Fragment

The Walk

THE BURNING WHEEL.

Wearied of its own turning,

Distressed with its own busy restlessness, Yearning to draw the circumferent pain—

The rim that is dizzy with speed—

To the motionless centre, there to rest, The wheel must strain through agony On agony contracting, returning Into the core of steel.

And at last the wheel has rest, is still, Shrunk to an adamant core:

Fulfilling its will in fixity.

But the yearning atoms, as they grind Closer and closer, more and more Fiercely together, beget

A flaming fire upward leaping, Billowing out in a burning,

Passionate, fierce desire to find The infinite calm of the mother’s breast.

And there the flame is a Christ-child sleeping, Bright, tenderly radiant;

All bitterness lost in the infinite Peace of the mother’s bosom.

But death comes creeping in a tide Of slow oblivion, till the flame in fear Wakes from the sleep of its quiet brightness And burns with a darkening passion and pain, Lest, all forgetting in quiet, it perish.

And as it burns and anguishes it quickens, Begetting once again the wheel that yearns—

Sick with its speed—for the terrible stillness Of the adamant core and the steel-hard chain.

And so once more

Shall the wheel revolve till its anguish cease In the iron anguish of fixity; Till once again

Flame billows out to infinity, Sinking to a sleep of brightness In that vast oblivious peace.

DOORS OF THE TEMPLE.

Many are the doors of the spirit that lead Into the inmost shrine:

And I count the gates of the temple divine, Since the god of the place is God indeed.

And these are the gates that God decreed Should lead to his house:—kisses and wine, Cool depths of thought, youth without rest, And calm old age, prayer and desire, The lover’s and mother’s breast, The fire of sense and the poet’s fire.

But he that worships the gates alone, Forgetting the shrine beyond, shall see The great valves open suddenly, Revealing, not God’s radiant throne, But the fires of wrath and agony.

VILLIERS DE L’ISLE-ADAM.

Up from the darkness on the laughing stage A sudden trap-door shot you unawares, Incarnate Tragedy, with your strange airs Of courteous sadness. Nothing could assuage The secular grief that was your heritage, Passed down the long line to the last that bears The name, a gift of yearnings and despairs Too greatly noble for this iron age.

Time moved for you not in quotidian beats, But in the long slow rhythm the ages keep In their immortal symphony. You taught That not in the harsh turmoil of the streets Does life consist; you bade the soul drink deep Of infinite things, saying: “The rest is naught.”

DARKNESS.

My close-walled soul has never known That innermost darkness, dazzling sight, Like the blind point, whence the visions spring In the core of the gazer’s chrysolite …

The mystic darkness that laps God’s throne In a splendour beyond imagining, So passing bright.

But the many twisted darknesses That range the city to and fro, In aimless subtlety pass and part And ebb and glutinously flow;

Darkness of lust and avarice,

Of the crippled body and the crooked heart …

These darknesses I know.

MOLE.

Tunnelled in solid blackness creeps The old mole-soul, and wakes or sleeps, He knows not which, but tunnels on Through ages of oblivion;

Until at last the long constraint Of each-hand wall is lost, and faint Comes daylight creeping from afar, And mole-work grows crepuscular.

Tunnel meets air and bursts; mole sees Men hugely walking … or are they trees?

And far horizons smoking blue, And chasing clouds for ever new?

Green hills, like lighted lamps aglow Or quenching ‘neath the cloud-shadow; Quenching and blazing turn by turn, Spring’s great green signals fitfully burn.

Mole travels on, but finds the steering A harder task of pioneering

Than when he thridded through the strait Blind catacombs that ancient fate Had carved for him. Stupid and dumb And blind and touchless he had come A way without a turn; but here, Under the sky, the passenger

Chooses his own best way; and mole Distracted wanders, yet his hole Regrets not much wherein he crept, But runs, a joyous nympholept, This way and that, by all made mad—

River nymph and oread,

Ocean’s daughters and Lorelei, Combing the silken mystery,

The glaucous gold of her rivery tresses—

Each haunts the traveller, each possesses The drunken wavering soul awhile; Then with a phantom’s cock-crow smile Mocks craving with sheer vanishment.

Mole-eyes grow hawk’s: knowledge is lent In grudging driblets that pay high Unconscionable usury

To unrelenting life. Mole learns To travel more secure; the turns Of his long way less puzzling seem, And all those magic forms that gleam In airy invitation cheat

Less often than they did of old.

The earth slopes upward, fold by fold Of quiet hills that meet the gold Serenity of western skies.

Over the world’s edge with clear eyes Our mole transcendent sees his way Tunnelled in light: he must obey Necessity again and thrid

Close catacombs as erst he did, Fate’s tunnellings, himself must bore Through the sunset’s inmost core.

The guiding walls to each-hand shine Luminous and crystalline;

And mole shall tunnel on and on, Till night let fall oblivion.

THE TWO SEASONS.

Summer, on himself intent,

Passed without, for nothing caring Save his own high festival.

My windows, blind and winkless staring, Wondered what the pageant meant, Nor ever understood at all.

And oh, the pains of sentiment!

The loneliness beyond all bearing …

Mucus and spleen and gall!

But now that grey November peers In at my fire-bright window pane?

And all its misty spires and trees Loom in upon me through the rain And question of the light that cheers The room within—now my soul sees Life, where of old were sepulchres; And in these new-found sympathies Sinks petty hopes and loves and fears, And knows that life is not in vain.

TWO REALITIES.

A waggon passed with scarlet wheels And a yellow body, shining new.

“Splendid!” said I. “How fine it feels To be alive, when beauty peels The grimy husk from life.” And you Said, “Splendid!” and I thought you’d seen That waggon blazing down the street; But I looked and saw that your gaze had been On a child that was kicking an obscene Brown ordure with his feet.

Our souls are elephants, thought I, Remote behind a prisoning grill, With trunks thrust out to peer and pry And pounce upon reality;

And each at his own sweet will Seizes the bun that he likes best And passes over all the rest.

QUOTIDIAN VISION.

There is a sadness in the street, And sullenly the folk I meet

Droop their heads as they walk along, Without a smile, without a song.

A mist of cold and muffling grey Falls, fold by fold, on another day That dies unwept. But suddenly, Under a tunnelled arch I see

On flank and haunch the chestnut gleam Of horses in a lamplit steam;

And the dead world moves for me once more With beauty for its living core.

VISION.

I had been sitting alone with books, Till doubt was a black disease, When I heard the cheerful shout of rooks In the bare, prophetic trees.

Bare trees, prophetic of new birth, You lift your branches clean and free To be a beacon to the earth,

A flame of wrath for all to see.

And the rooks in the branches laugh and shout To those that can hear and understand; “Walk through the gloomy ways of doubt With the torch of vision in your hand.”

THE MIRROR.

Slow-moving moonlight once did pass Across the dreaming looking-glass, Where, sunk inviolably deep,

Old secrets unforgotten sleep

Of beauties unforgettable.

But dusty cobwebs are woven now Across that mirror, which of old Saw fingers drawing back the gold From an untroubled brow;

And the depths are blinded to the moon, And their secrets forgotten, for ever untold.

VARIATIONS ON A THEME OF LAFORGUE.

Youth as it opens out discloses The sinister metempsychosis

Of lilies dead and turned to roses Red as an angry dawn.

But lilies, remember, are grave-side flowers, While slow bright rose-leaves sail Adrift on the music of happiest hours; And those lilies, cold and pale, Hide fiery roses beneath the lawn Of the young bride’s parting veil.

PHILOSOPHY.

“God needs no christening,”

Pantheist mutters,

“Love opens shutters

On heaven’s glistening.

Flesh, key-hole listening,

Hears what God utters” …

Yes, but God stutters.

PHILOCLEA IN THE FOREST.

I.

‘TWas I that leaned to Amoret

With: “What if the briars have tangled Time, Till, lost in the wood-ways, he quite forget How plaintive in cities at midnight sounds the chime Of bells slow-dying from discord to the hush whence they rose and met.

“And in the forest we shall live free, Free from the bondage that Time has made To hedge our soul from its liberty?

We shall not fear what is mighty, and unafraid Shall look wide-eyed at beauty, nor shrink from its majesty.”

But Amoret answered me again:

“We are lost in the forest, you and I; Lost, lost, not free, though no bonds restrain; For no spire rises for comfort, no landmark in the sky, And the long glades as they curve from sight are dark with a nameless pain.

And Time creates what he devours,—

Music that sweetly dreams itself away, Frail-swung leaves of autumn and the scent of flowers, And the beauty of that poised moment, when the day Hangs ‘twixt the quiet of darkness and the mirth of the sunlit hours.”

II.

Mottled and grey and brown they pass, The wood-moths, wheeling, fluttering; And we chase and they vanish; and in the grass Are starry flowers, and the birds sing Faint broken songs of the dying spring.

And on the beech-bole, smooth and grey, Some lover of an older day

Has carved in time-blurred lettering One word only—“Alas.”

III.

Lutes, I forbid you! You must never play, When shimmeringly, glimpse by glimpse Seen through the leaves, the silken figures sway In measured dance. Never at shut of day, When Time perversely loitering limps Through endless twilights, should your strings Whisper of light remembered things That happened long ago and far away: Lutes, I forbid you! You must never play…

And you, pale marble statues, far descried Where vistas open suddenly,

I bid you shew yourselves no more, but hide Your loveliness, lest too much glorified By western radiance slantingly Shot down the glade, you turn from stone To living gods, immortal grown, And, ageless, mock my beauty’s fleeting pride, You pale, relentless statues, far descried…

BOOKS AND THOUGHTS.

Old ghosts that death forgot to ferry Across the Lethe of the years—

These are my friends, and at their tears I weep and with their mirth am merry.

On a high tower, whose battlements Give me all heaven at a glance, I lie long summer nights in trance, Drowsed by the murmurs and the scents That rise from earth, while the sky above me Merges its peace with my soul’s peace, Deep meeting deep. No stir can move me, Nought break the quiet of my release: In vain the windy sunlight raves At the hush and gloom of polar caves.

“CONTRARY TO NATURE AND ARISTOTLE.”

One head of my soul’s amphisbaena Turns to the daytime’s dust and sweat; But evenings come, when I would forget The sordid strife of the arena.

And then my other self will creep Along the scented twilight lanes To where a little house contains A hoard of books, a gift of sleep.

Its windows throw a friendly light Between the narrowing shutter slats, And, golden as the eyes of cats, Shine me a welcome through the night.

ESCAPE.

I seek the quietude of stones

Or of great oxen, dewlap-deep

In meadows of lush grass, where sleep Drifts, tufted, on the air or drones On flowery traffic. Sleep atones For sin, comforting eyes that weep.

O’er me, Lethean darkness, creep Unfelt as tides through dead men’s bones!

In that metallic sea of hair,

Fragrance! I come to drown despair Of wings in dark forgetfulness.

No love … Love is self-known, aspires To heights unearthly. I ask less,—

Sleep born of satisfied desires.

THE GARDEN.

There shall be dark trees round me:—I insist On cypresses: I’m terribly romantic—

And glimpsed between shall move the whole Atlantic, Now leaden dull, now subtle with grey mist, Now many jewelled, when the waves are kissed By revelling sunlight and the corybantic South-Western wind: so, troubled, passion-frantic, The poet’s mind boils gold and amethyst.

There shall be seen the infinite endeavour Of a sad fountain, white against the sky And poised as it strains up, but doomed to break In weeping music; ever fair and ever Young … and the bright-eyed wood-gods as they slake Their thirst in it, are silent, reverently …

THE CANAL.

No dip and dart of swallows wakes the black Slumber of the canal:—a mirror dead For lack of loveliness remembered From ancient azures and green trees, for lack Of some white beauty given and flung back, Secret, to her that gave: no sun has bled To wake an echo here of answering red; The surface stirs to no leaf’s wind-blown track.

Between unseeing walls the waters rest, Lifeless and hushed, till suddenly a swan Glides from some broader river blue as day, And with the mirrored magic of his breast Creates within that barren water-way New life, new loveliness, and passes on.

THE IDEAL FOUND WANTING.

I’m sick of clownery and Owlglass tricks; Damn the whole crowd of you I I hate you all.

The same, night after night, from powdered stall To sweating gallery, your faces fix In flux an idiot mean. The Apteryx You worship is no victory; you call On old stupidity, God made to crawl For tempting with world-wisdom’s narcotics.

I’ll break a window through my prison! See, The sunset bleeds among the roofs; comes night, Dark blue and calm as music dying out.

Is it escape? No, the laugh’s turned on me!

I kicked at cardboard, gaped at red limelight; You laughed and cheered my latest knockabout.

MISPLACED LOVE.

Red wine that slowly leaned and brimmed the shell Of pearl, where lips had touched, as light and swift As naked petals of the rose adrift Upon the lazy-luted ritournelle Of summer bee-song: laughing as they fell, Gold memories: dream incense, childhood’s gift, Blue as the smoke that far horizons lift, Tenuous as the wings of Ariel:—

These treasured things I laid upon the pyre; And the flame kindled, and I fanned it high, And, strong in hope, could watch the crumbling past.

Eager I knelt before the waning fire, Phoenix, to greet thine immortality …

But there was naught but ashes at the last.

SONNET.

Were I to die, you’d break your heart, you say.

Well, if it do but bend, I’m satisfied—

Bend and rebound—for hearts are temper-tried, Mild steel, not hardened, with the spring and play Of excellent tough swords. It’s not that way That you’ll be perishing. But when I’ve died, When snap! my light goes out, what will betide You, if the heart-breaks give you leave to stay?

What will be left, I wonder, if you lose All that you gave me? “All? A year or so Out of a life,” you say. But worlds, say I, Of kisses timeless given in ecstasy That gave me Real You. I die: you go With me. What’s left? Limbs, clothes, a pair of shoes?…

SENTIMENTAL SUMMER.

The West has plucked its flowers and has thrown Them fading on the night. Out of the sky’s Black depths there smiles a greeting from those eyes, Where all the Real, all I have ever known Of the divine is held. And not alone Do I stand here now … a presence seems to rise: Your voice sounds near across my memories, And answering fingers brush against my own.

Yes, it is you: for evening holds those strands Of fire and darkness twined in one to make Your loveliness a web of magic mesh, Whose cross-weft harmony of soul and flesh Shadows a thought or glows, when smiles awake, Like sunlight passionate on southern lands.

THE CHOICE.

Comrade, now that you’re merry And therefore true,

Say—where would you like to die And have your friend to bury

What once was you?

“On the top of a hill

With a peaceful view

Of country where all is still?”…

Great God, not I!

I’d lie in the street

Where two streams meet

And there’s noise enough to fill The outer ear,

While within the brain can beat Marches of death and life,

Glory and joy and fear,

Peace of the sort that moves

And clash of strife

And routs of armies fleeing.

There would I shake myself clear Out of the deep-set grooves

Of my sluggish being.

THE HIGHER SENSUALISM.

There’s a church by a lake in Italy Stands white on a hill against the sky?

And a path of immemorial cobbles Leads up and up, where the pilgrim hobbles Past a score or so of neat reposories, Where you stop and breathe and tell your rosaries To the shrined terra-cotta mannikins, That expound with the liveliest quirks and grins Known texts of Scripture. But no long stay Should the pilgrim make upon his way; But as means to the end these shrines stand here To guide to something holier,

The church on the hilltop.

Your heaven’s so, With a path leading up to it past a row Of votary Priapulids;

At each you pause and tell your beads Along the quintuple strings of sense: Then on, to face Heaven’s eminence, New stimulated, new inspired.

SONNET.

If that a sparkle of true starshine be That led my way; if some diviner thing Than common thought urged me to fashioning Close-woven links of burnished poetry; Then all the heaven that one time dwelt in me Has fled, leaving the body triumphing.

Dead flesh it seems, with not a dream to bring Visions that better warm immediacy.

Why have my visions left me, what could kill That feeble spark, which yet had life and heat?

Fulfilment shewed a present rich and fair: I strive to mount, but catch the nearest still: Souls have been drowned between heart’s beat and beat, And trapped and tangled in a woman’s hair.

FORMAL VERSES.

I.

Mother of all my future memories, Mistress of my new life, which but to-day Began, when I beheld, deep in your eyes, My own love mirrored and the warm surprise Of the first kiss swept both our souls away, Your love has freed me; for I was oppressed By my own devil, whose unwholesome breath Tarnished my youth, leaving to me at best Age lacking comfort of a soul at rest And weariness beyond the hope of death.

II.

Ah, those were days of silent happiness!

I never spoke, and had no need to speak, While on the windy down-land, cheek by cheek, The slow-driven sun beheld us. Each caress Had oratory for its own defence; And when I kissed or felt her fingers press, I envied not Demosthenes his Greek, Nor Tully for his Latin eloquence.

PERILS OF THE SMALL HOURS.

When life burns low as the fire in the grate And all the evening’s books are read, I sit alone, save for the dead And the lovers I have grown to hate.

But all at once the narrow gloom Of hatred and despair expands

In tenderness: thought stretches hands To welcome to the midnight room Another presence:—a memory

Of how last year in the sunlit field, Laughing, you suddenly revealed Beauty in immortality.

For so it is; a gesture strips Life bare of all its make-believe.

All unprepared we may receive

Our casual apocalypse.

Sheer beauty, then you seemed to stir Unbodied soul; soul sleeps to-night, And love comes, dimming spirit’s sight, When body plays interpreter.

COMPLAINT.

I have tried to remember the familiar places,—

The pillared gloom of the beechwoods, the towns by the sea,—

I have tried to people the past with dear known faces, But you were haunting me.

Like a remorse, insistent, pitiless, You have filled my spirit, you were ever at hand; You have mocked my gods with your new loveliness: Broken the old shrines stand.

RETURN TO AN OLD HOME.

In this wood—how the hazels have grown!—

I left a treasure all my own

Of childish kisses and laughter and pain; Left, till I might come back again To take from the familiar earth My hoarded secret and count its worth.

And all the spider-work of the years, All the time-spun gossamers,

Dewed with each succeeding spring; And the piled up leaves the Autumns fling To the sweet corruption of death on death….

At the sudden stir of my spirit’s breath All scattered. New and fair and bright As ever it was, before my sight The treasure lay, and nothing missed.

So having handled all and kissed, I put them back, adding one new And precious memory of you.

FRAGMENT.

We’re German scholars poring over life, As over a Greek manuscript that’s torn And stained beyond repair. Our eyes of horn Read one or two poor letters; and what strife, What books on books begotten for their sake!

But we enjoy it; and meanwhile neglect The line that’s left us perfect from the wrecked Rich argosy, clear beyond doubts to make Conjectures of. So in my universe Of scribbled half-hid meanings you appear, Sole perfect symbol of the highest sphere; And life’s great matrix crystal, whose depths nurse Soul’s infinite reflections, glows in you With now uncertain radiance…

THE WALK.

I. THROUGH THE SUBURBS.

Provincial Sunday broods above the town: The street’s asleep; through a dim window drifts A small romance that hiccoughs up and down An air all trills and runs and sudden lifts To yearning sevenths poised … not Chopin quite, But, oh, romantic; a tinsel world made bright With rose and honeysuckle’s paper blooms, And where the moon’s blue limelight and the glooms Of last-act scenes of passion are discreet.

And when the tinkling stops and leaves the street Blank in the sunlight of the afternoon You feel a curtain dropped. Poor little tune!

Perhaps our grandmother’s dull girlhood days Were fired by you with radiances of pink, Heavenly, brighter far than she could think Anything might be … till a greater blaze Tinged life’s horizon, when he kissed her first, Our grandpapa. But a thin ghost still plays In music down the street, echoing the plaint Of far romance with its own sadder song Of Everyday; and as they walk along,…

The young man and the woman, deep immersed In all the suburb-comedy around …

They seem to catch coherence in the sound Of that ghost-music, and the words come faint:—

Oh the months and the days, Oh sleeps and dinners, Oh the planning of ways And quotidian means!

Oh endless vistas of mutton and greens, Oh weekly mimblings of prayer and praise, Oh Evenings with All the Winners!

Monday sends the clothes to the wash And Saturday brings them home again: Mon Dieu, la vie est par trop moche And Destiny is a sale caboche; But I’ll give you heaven In a dominant seven, And you shall not have lived in vain.

“In vain,” the girl repeats, “in vain, in vain …”

Your suburb’s whole philosophy leads there.

The ox-stall for our happiness, for pain, Poignant and sweet, the dull narcotic ache Of wretchedness, and in resigned despair A grim contentment … ashen fruits to slake A nameless, quenchless thirst. The tinkling rain Of that small sentimental music wets Your parching suburb: it may sprout … who knows?…

In something red and silken like a rose, In sheaves of almost genuine violets.

Faint chords, your sadness, secular, immense, Brims to the bursting this poor Actual heart.

For surging through the floodgates that the sense On sudden lightly opens sweeps the Whole Into the narrow compass of its part.

<i>He.</i>

Inedited sensation of the soul!

You’d have us bless the Hire-Purchase System, Which now allows the poorest vampers To feel, as they abuse their piano’s dampers, That angels have stooped down and kissed ‘em With Ave-Maries from the infinite.

But poor old Infinite’s dead. Long live his heir, Lord Here-and-Now … for all the rest Is windy nothingness, or at the best Home-made Chimera, bodied with despair, Headed with formless, foolish hope.

<i>She.</i>

No, no!

We live in verse, for all things rhyme With something out of space and time.

<i>He.</i>

But in the suburb here life needs must flow In journalistic prose …

<i>She.</i>

But we have set Our faces towards the further hills, where yet The wind untainted and unbound may blow.

II. FROM THE CREST.

So through the squalor, till the sky unfolds To right and left its fringes, penned no more, A thin canal, ‘twixt shore and ugly shore Of hovels, poured contiguous from the moulds Of Gothic horror. Town is left at last, Save for the tentacles that probe,… a squat Dun house or two, allotments, plot on plot Of cabbage, jejune, ripe or passed, Chequering with sick yellow or verdigris The necropolitan ground; and neat paved ways That edge the road … the town’s last nerves … and cease, As if in sudden shame, where hedges raise Their dusty greenery on either hand.

Their path mounts slowly up the hill; And, as they walk, to right and left expand The plain and the golden uplands and the blue Faint smoke of distances that fade from view; And at their feet, remote and still?

The city spreads itself.

<i>He.</i>

That glabrous dome that lifts itself so grand, There in the marish, is the omphalos, The navel, umbo, middle, central boss Of the unique, sole, true Cloud-Cuckoo Land.

Drowsy with Sunday bells and Sunday beer Afoam in silver rumkins, there it basks, Thinking of labours past and future tasks And pondering on the end, forever near, Yet ever distant as the rainbow’s spring.

For still in Cuckoo-Land they’re labouring, With hopes undamped and undiscouraged hearts: A little musty, but superb, they sit, Piecing a god together bit by bit Out of the chaos of his sundered parts.

Unmoved, nay pitying, they view the grins And lewd grimaces of the folk that jeer …

The vulgar herd, gross monster at the best, Obscenum Mobile, the uttermost sphere, Alas, too much the mover of the rest, Though they turn sungates to its widdershins …

And in some half a million years perhaps God may at last be made … a new, true Pan, An Isis templed in the soul of man, An Aphrodite with her thousand paps Streaming eternal wisdom.

Yes, and man’s vessel, all pavilioned out With silk and flags in the fair wind astream, Shall make the port at last, with a great shout Ringing from all her decks, and rocking there shall dream For ever, and dream true … calm in those roads As lovers’ souls at evening, when they swim Between the despairing sunset and the dim Blue memories of mountains lost to sight But, like half fancied, half remembered episodes Of childhood, guessed at through the veils of night.

And the worn sailors at the mast who heard The first far bells and knew the sound for home, Who marked the land-weeds and the sand-stained foam And through the storm-blast saw a wildered bird Seek refuge at the mast-head … these at last Shall earn due praise when all the hubbub’s past; And Cuckoo-Landers not a few shall prove.

<i>She.</i>

You have fast closed the temple gates; You stand without in the noon-tides glow, But the innermost darkness, where God waits, You do not know, you cannot know.