Midnight has come, and the great Christ Church bell And
may a lesser bell sound through the room; And
it is All Souls’ Night, And
two long glasses brimmed with muscatel Bubble
upon the table. A ghost may come; For
it is a ghost’s right, His
element is so fine Being
sharpened by his death, To
drink from the wine-breath While
our gross palates drink from the whole wine. I
need some mind that, if the cannon sound From
every quarter of the world, can stay Wound
in mind’s pondering As
mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound; Because
I have a marvellous thing to say, A
certain marvellous thing None
but the living mock, Though
not for sober ear; It
may be all that hear Should
laugh and weep an hour upon the clock. Horton’s
the first I call. He loved strange thought And
knew that sweet extremity of pride That’s
called platonic love, And
that to such a pitch of passion wrought Nothing
could bring him, when his lady died, Anodyne
for his love. Words
were but wasted breath; One
dear hope had he: The
inclemency Of
that or the next winter would be death. Two
thoughts were so mixed up I could not tell Whether
of her or God he thought the most, But
think that his mind’s eye, When
upward turned, on one sole image fell; And
that a slight companionable ghost, Wild
with divinity, Had
so lit up the whole Immense
miraculous house The
Bible promised us, It
seemed a gold-fish swimming in a bowl. On
Florence Emery I call the next, Who
finding the first wrinkles on a face Admired
and beautiful, And
by foreknowledge of the future vexed Diminished
beauty, multiplied commonplace, preferred
to teach a school Away
from neighbour or friend, Among
dark skins, and there permit
foul years to wear Hidden
from eyesight to the unnoticed end. Before
that end much had she ravelled out From
a discourse in figurative speech By
some learned Indian On
the soul’s journey. How it is whirled about, Wherever
the orbit of the moon can reach, Until
it plunge into the sun; And
there, free and yet fast, Being
both Chance and Choice, Forget
its broken toys And
sink into its own delight at last. I
call MacGregor Mathers from his grave, For
in my first hard springtime we were friends. Although
of late estranged. I
thought him half a lunatic, half knave, And
told him so, but friendship never ends; And
what if mind seem changed, And
it seem changed with the mind, When
thoughts rise up unbid On
generous things that he did And
I grow half contented to be blind! He
had much industry at setting out, Much
boisterous courage, before loneliness Had
driven him crazed; For
meditations upon unknown thought Make
human intercourse grow less and less; They
are neither paid nor praised. But
he d object to the host, The
glass because my glass; A
ghost-lover he was And
may have grown more arrogant being a ghost. But
names are nothing. What matter who it be, So
that his elements have grown so fine The
fume of muscatel Can
give his sharpened palate ecstasy No
living man can drink from the whole wine. I
have mummy truths to tell Whereat
the living mock, Though
not for sober ear, For
maybe all that hear Should
laugh and weep an hour upon the clock. Such
thought – such thought have I that hold it tight Till
meditation master all its parts, Nothing
can stay my glance Until
that glance run in the world’s despite To
where the damned have howled away their hearts, And
where the blessed dance; Such
thought, that in it bound I
need no other thing, Wound
in mind’s wandering As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound. |
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