Limbo's dreary scope,
We yet may pick up some minute lost hope; 60
And sharing it between us, entrance win,
In spite of fiends so jealous
for gross sin:
Let us without delay our search begin.
VII
Some say that phantoms haunt those shadowy streets,
And mingle
freely there with sparse mankind;
And tell of ancient woes and black
defeats,
And murmur mysteries in the grave enshrined:
But others
think them visions of illusion, 5 Or even men gone far in self-confusion;
No man there being wholly sane in mind.
And yet a man who raves, however mad,
Who bares his heart and
tells of his own fall,
Reserves some inmost secret good or bad: 10
The phantoms have no reticence at all:
The nudity of flesh will blush
though tameless
The extreme nudity of bone grins shameless,
The
unsexed skeleton mocks shroud and pall.
I have seen phantoms there that were as men 15 And men that were as
phantoms flit and roam;
Marked shapes that were not living to my
ken,
Caught breathings acrid as with Dead Sea foam:
The City rests
for man so weird and awful,
That his intrusion there might seem
unlawful, 20 And phantoms there may have their proper home.
VIII
While I still lingered on that river-walk,
And watched the tide as
black as our black doom,
I heard another couple join in talk,
And
saw them to the left hand in the gloom
Seated against an elm bole on
the ground, 5 Their eyes intent upon the stream profound.
"I never knew another man on earth
But had some joy and solace in
his life,
Some chance of triumph in the dreadful strife:
My doom
has been unmitigated dearth." 10
"We gaze upon the river, and we note
The various vessels large and
small that float,
Ignoring every wrecked and sunken boat."
"And yet I asked no splendid dower, no spoil
Of sway or fame or
rank or even wealth; 15 But homely love with common food and health,
And nightly sleep to balance daily toil."
"This all-too-humble soul would arrogate
Unto itself some signalising
hate
From the supreme indifference of Fate!" 20
"Who is most wretched in this dolorous place?
I think myself; yet I
would rather be
My miserable self than He, than He
Who formed
such creatures to His own disgrace.
"The vilest thing must be less vile than Thou 25 From whom it had its
being, God and Lord!
Creator of all woe and sin! abhorred
Malignant and implacable! I vow
"That not for all Thy power furled and unfurled,
For all the temples to
Thy glory built, 30 Would I assume the ignominious guilt
Of having
made such men in such a world."
"As if a Being, God or Fiend, could reign,
At once so wicked, foolish
and insane,
As to produce men when He might refrain! 35
"The world rolls round for ever like a mill;
It grinds out death and life
and good and ill;
It has no purpose, heart or mind or will.
"While air of Space and Time's full river flow
The mill must blindly
whirl unresting so: 40 It may be wearing out, but who can know?
"Man might know one thing were his sight less dim;
That it whirls
not to suit his petty whim,
That it is quite indifferent to him.
"Nay, does it treat him harshly as he saith? 45 It grinds him some slow
years of bitter breath,
Then grinds him back into eternal death."
IX
It is full strange to him who hears and feels,
When wandering there in
some deserted street,
The booming and the jar of ponderous wheels,
The trampling clash of heavy ironshod feet:
Who in this Venice of
the Black Sea rideth? 5 Who in this city of the stars abideth
To buy or
sell as those in daylight sweet?
The rolling thunder seems to fill the sky
As it comes on; the horses
snort and strain,
The harness jingles, as it passes by; 10 The hugeness
of an overburthened wain:
A man sits nodding on the shaft or trudges
Three parts asleep beside his fellow-drudges:
And so it rolls into
the night again.
What merchandise? whence, whither, and for whom? 15 Perchance it is
a Fate-appointed hearse,
Bearing away to some mysterious tomb
Or
Limbo of the scornful universe
The joy, the peace, the life-hope, the
abortions
Of all things good which should have been our portions, 20
But have been strangled by that City's curse.
X
The mansion stood apart in its own ground;
In front thereof a fragrant
garden-lawn,
High trees about it, and the whole walled round:
The
massy iron gates were both withdrawn;
And every window of its
front shed light, 5 Portentous in that City of the Night.
But though thus lighted it was deadly still
As all the countless bulks
of solid gloom;
Perchance a congregation to fulfil
Solemnities of
silence in this doom, 10 Mysterious rites of dolour and despair
Permitting not a breath or chant of prayer?
Broad steps ascended to a terrace broad
Whereon lay still light from
the open door;
The hall was noble, and its aspect awed, 15 Hung
round with heavy black
Continue reading on your phone by scaning this QR Code
Tip: The current page has been bookmarked automatically. If you wish to continue reading later, just open the
Dertz Homepage, and click on the 'continue reading' link at the bottom of the page.