My Soul. I summon to the winding ancient stair; Set
all your mind upon the steep ascent, Upon
the broken, crumbling battlement, Upon
the breathless starlit air, Upon
the star that marks the hidden pole; Fix
every wandering thought upon That
quarter where all thought is done: Who
can distinguish darkness from the soul My
Self. The consecretes blade upon my knees Is
Sato’s ancient blade, still as it was, Still
razor-keen, still like a looking-glass Unspotted
by the centuries; That
flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn From
some court-lady’s dress and round The
wodden scabbard bound and wound Can,
tattered, still protect, faded adorn My
Soul. Why should the imagination of a man Long
past his prime remember things that are Emblematical
of love and war? Think
of ancestral night that can, If
but imagination scorn the earth And
intellect is wandering To
this and that and t’other thing, Deliver
from the crime of death and birth. My
Self. Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned it Five
hundred years ago, about it lie Flowers
from I know not what embroidery - Heart's
purple - and all these I set For
emblems of the day against the tower Emblematical
of the night, And
claim as by a soldier’s right A
charter to commit the crime once more. My
Soul. Such fullness in that quarter overflows And
falls into the basin of the mind That
man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind, For
intellect no longer knows Is
from the Ought, or knower from the Known - That
is to say, ascends to Heaven; Only
the dead can be forgiven; But when I think of that my tongue’s a stone. |
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