VII. I See Phantoms of Hatred and of the Heart’s Fullness and of the Coming Emptiness I
climb to the tower-top and lean upon broken stone, A
mist that is like blown snow is sweeping over all, Valley,
river, and elms, under the light of a moon That
seems unlike itself, that seems unchangeable, A
glittering sword out of the east. A puff of wind And
those white glimmering fragments of the mist sweep by. Frenzies
bewilder, reveries perturb the mind; Monstrous
familiar images swim to the mind's eye. “Vengeance
upon the murderers,” the cry goes up, “Vengeance
for Jacques Molay.” In cloud-pale rags, or in lace, The
rage-driven, rage-tormented, and rage-hungry troop, Trooper
belabouring trooper, biting at arm or at face, Plunges
towards nothing, arms and fingers spreading wide For
the embrace of nothing; and I, my wits astray Because
of all that senseless tumult, all but cried For
vengeance on the murderers of Jacques Molay. Their
legs long, delicate and slender, aquamarine their eyes, Magical
unicorns bear ladies on their backs. The
ladies close their musing eyes. No prophecies, Remembered
out of Babylonian almanacs, Have
closed the ladies’ eyes, their minds are but a pool Where
even longing drowns under its own excess; Nothing
but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of
their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness. The
cloud-pale unicorns, the eyes of aquamarine, The
quivering half-closed eyelids, the rags of cloud or of lace, Or
eyes that rage has brightened, arms it has made lean, Give
place to an indifferent multitude, give place To
brazen hawks. Nor self-delighting reverie, Nor
hate of what’s to come, nor pity for what’s gone, Nothing
but grip of claw, and the eye’s complacency, The
innumerable clanging wings that have put out the moon. I
turn away and shut the door, and on the stair Wonder
how many times I could have proved my worth In
something that all others understand or share; But
O! ambitious heart, had such a proof drawn forth A
company of friends, a conscience set at ease, It
had but made us pine the more. The abstract joy, The
half-read wisdom of daemonic images, Suffice the ageing man as once the growing boy. |
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