The gyres! The gyres! Old Rocky Face, look forth; Things
thought too long can be no longer thought, For
beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth, And
ancient lineaments are blotted out. Irrational
streams of blood are staining earth; Empedocles
has thrown all things about; Hector
is dead and there’s a light in Troy; We
that look on but laugh in tragic joy. What
matter though numb nightmare ride on top, And
blood and mire the sensitive body stain? What
matter? Heave no sigh, let no tear drop, A
greater, a more gracious time has gone; For
painted forms or boxes of make-up In
ancient tombs I sighed, but not again; What
matter? Out of Cavern comes a voice, And
all it knows is that one word 'Rejoice!' Conduct
and work grow coarse, and coarse the soul, What
matter? Those that Rocky Face holds dear, Lovers
of horses and of women, shall, From
marble of a broken sepulchre, Or
dark betwixt the polecat and the owl, Or
any rich, dark nothing disinter The
workman, noble and saint, and all things run On that unfashionable gyre again. |
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