Ínterin
¡La habitación está llena de ti! —Cuando llegué
y cerré la puerta, de repente
algo en el aire, intangible,
aunque cargado de significado, ¡enfermó mis sentidos!
Olores fuertes y desconocidos han destruido
el querido sello de cada habitación.
El denso aroma de las flores húmedas y fúnebres, —
la esencia misma, de la Muerte, destilada en silencio, —
ha asfixiado ese aliento acostumbrado del hogar
cuya expiración mata todas las casas;
y donde quiera que mire hay un cambio aterrador.
Salvo aquí. Aquí fue como si una puerta sofocada por la maleza
se hubiera abierto al tocarla, y yo accediera
a algún olvidado, encantado, extraño,
amable jardín de hace mil años
y de repente pensé: "¡He estado aquí antes!"
Tú no estás aquí. Sé que te has ido,
y no volverás a entrar nunca más.
Y sin embargo, me parece, debo decirlo,
que tu paso silencioso debería resurgir en el pasillo;
cuando diera vuelta la cabeza, para que tus dulces ojos
me besaran desde la puerta. —¡Tan poco tiempo
para enseñar a mi vida la transposición a
este signo difícil e inusual!
La habitación está como la dejaste; tu último toque—
una presión irreflexiva, no sabiéndose a tí misma
como santa —consagra ahora cada cosa simple;
consagra y glorifica, y brilla entre
los dedos grises del polvo como una luz blindada.
Está tu libro, tal como lo dejaste,
de cara a la mesa, —¡no puedo creer
que te hayas ido! —En aquel momento me pareció
que estarías aquí. Apenas sonriendo al pensar
que el sueño había sido tan real;
sin embargo, lo supe antes de sonreír, y permanecí quieto.
Ese libro desplegado, ¡tal como lo dejaste!
Quizás pensaste: “Me pregunto qué viene después,
y si esto o esto será el final”;
así que te levantaste, y lo dejaste, pensando en regresar.
Tal vez esa silla, cuando te levantaste y te
desvaneciste de la habitación, se meció en silencio por un rato
antes de quedarse quieta otra vez. Cuando te fuiste
para siempre de la habitación, tal vez esa silla,
agitada por tu movimiento, se meció un poco,
en silencio, en un vaivén...
Y aquí están las últimas palabras que escribieron tus dedos,
garabateadas en grandes caracteres sobre una página
de este libro marrón que te di. Aquí tu mano,
guiando tu pluma rápida, se movió hacia arriba y hacia abajo.
Aquí con un rulo cruzaste una “t”
y aquí otro igual, justo debajo
de estas dos excéntricas “ees”. ¡Eras tan pequeña,
y tan valiente al escribir!
¡Qué extraño es que
de todas las palabras, estas sean las palabras que elegiste!
Y, sin embargo, una elección sencilla; no sabías que
no escribirías otra vez. Si lo hubieras sabido—
pero bueno, no importa, —y de hecho
si hubieras sabido que quedaba tan poco tiempo
hubieras dejado tu pluma caer y hubieras venido a mí
y esta página estaría vacía, y alguna frase
además de esta mantendría ahora mi fascinación.
Sin embargo, dado que no lo sabías, y sucedió
que estas son las últimas palabras que tus dedos escribieron,
hay una dignidad que algunos podrían no ver
en ello, “Escogí la primera alverjilla hoy”.
¡Hoy! ¿Había un capullo abierto a su lado
que dejaste hasta mañana? —O mi amor,
las cosas que se marchitaron, —y no regresaste
ese día me llenaste el círculo de mis brazos
que ahora está vacío. (¡Oh mi vida vacía!)
Ese día —ese día en que elegiste la primera alverjilla,
¡y la trajiste para que la viera! Recuerdo
con terrible claridad cómo el olor
de tus frescos jardines te acompañaban.
Lo sé, lo sostuviste para que yo lo viera
y te sonrojaste porque no miré la flor
sino a tu rostro; y cuando detrás de mi mirada
viste una intención inconfundible
te reíste y frotaste tu flor contra mis labios.
(Eras la cosa más bella que Dios alguna vez haya hecho,
creo.) Y luego tus manos sobre mi corazón
trazaron su tallo en una unión,
y mientras tu cabeza estaba inclinada te besé el pelo.
Me pregunto si lo sabías (¡Amadas manos!
De algún modo no puedo verlas quietas.
De algún modo no puedo ver el polvo
en tu cabello luminoso.) ¿Por qué necesitar el Cielo
cuando la tierra puede ser tan dulce? —Si solo Dios
nos hubiera permitido amarnos, —¡y mostrarle al mundo la manera!
¡Extrañas anulaciones deben teñir los libros eternos
cuando el amor anulado trae la respuesta correcta!
¡Esa primera alverjilla! Me pregunto dónde está.
Me parece que la dejé en alguna parte,
y sin embargo, —no estoy seguro. No estoy seguro,
incluso, de si era blanca o rosa; para entonces
era igual a cualquier flor para mí
excepto que fue la primera. No lo sabía
entonces, que sería la última. De haber sabido—
de todos modos, no importa. Es extraño qué pocas,
después de todo lo dicho y hecho, son las cosas
del momento.
¡Pocas de hecho! ¡Cuando puedo hacer
una cuerda para colgar el mundo con diez breves palabras!
“Te tuve a ti y ya no te tengo más”.
Ahí, ahí cuelga, —¿dónde está la pequeña verdad
que puede mantenerse en pie durante mucho tiempo
cuando sus sílabas sueltas se ajustan a un pensamiento?
¡Aquí, déjame escribirlo! ¡Deseo ver
cómo se ve una cosa así en papel!
“Te tuve a ti y ya no te tengo más”.
O pequeñas palabras, ¿cómo pueden correr tan imparciales
por la página, bajo el peso que tienen?
¿Cómo pueden desmoronarse, aquellas a quienes ese tema
ha unido, y de aquí en más ayudan
con expresión trivial, eso que ha sido
tan terriblemente digno? —¡Será Dios
quien desgarrándote rompa el hilo
con que yo te he enhebrado! Será Dios —¡oh Dios, mi mente
se divide en esta exhibición despiadada
de imágenes! ¡Oh, déjame dormir un rato!
¿Podría dormir y despertar para encontrarme de nuevo
en esa dulce tarde de verano contigo?
¿Verano? ¡Todavía es verano según el calendario!
¡Cuán fácilmente podría Dios, si así lo deseara,
dar marcha atrás el mundo una pequeña vuelta o dos!
¡Corregir sus penas y traer sus alegrías otra vez!
Éramos tan completamente uno que no pensé
que podríamos morir separados. No pensé
que podría moverme, —¡y tú estarás rígida e inmóvil!
que podría hablar, —¡y tú, fatalmente muda!
Creo que las cuerdas de nuestros corazones eran, la urdimbre y la trama
en una tela noble, entretejida;
tus filamentos dorados en un diseño nítido
atravesando mi fibra opaca. Y hoy
la franja brillante está desgarrada; el exquisito
diseño es destruido; parte de tu corazón
duele en mi pecho; parte de mi corazón yace helado
en la tierra húmeda contigo. He sido un fulano
partido en dos, y sufro por el resto de mí.
¿Qué es mi vida para mí? Y qué soy yo
para la vida, —¿un barco cuya estrella se ha apagado?
¿Un miedo que despierta perpetuamente en la noche
profunda, para encontrar sus sentidos tensos
contra las tensas cuerdas del aire tembloroso,
esperando el regreso de algún acorde de terror?
Oscuridad, Oscuridad, es todo lo que encuentro como metáfora;
el resto era contraste, -salvo que esa pared de contraste
se vino abajo, y todas las cosas opuestas fluyen juntas
en una vasta monotonía, donde la noche
y el día, y la escarcha y el deshielo, y la muerte y la vida,
son sinónimos ¿Y ahora qué —y ahora qué son para mí
todos los pájaros charlatanes y las flores tontas
que plagan el mundo? ¡Tú eras mi canción!
¡Ahora, deja que la discordia grite! ¡Tú eras mi flor!
¡Ahora deja que el mundo cultive malas hierbas! Porque no
plantaré cosas sobre tu tumba- (¡el bálsamo habitual
de la pena convencional por su propia herida!)
Entre sensaciones que dan negativo
por tu eliminación continua hoy,
verdadera, sin mezclar, el elemento del dolor;
duelo; y no me burlaré de mi verdad
con parodias de sufrimiento, ni trataré
de representar su volumen incorpóreo
en pequeñas imágenes de desconsuelo.
No puedo llamarte de regreso; y no deseo
ningún sonido de mi voz inmaterial.
ni siquiera puedo dar vuelta mi cara de esta manera
u otra, y decir: “Mi cara se ha vuelto hacia ti”;
no sé dónde estás, no sé
si el Cielo te tiene o si la tierra transmuta,
cuerpo y alma, tú a la tierra otra vez;
pero esto sé: —no por un segundo
insultaré mi vista con visiones
como la multitud crédula que ansiosa
contempla, auto conjurada, en el espacio vacío.
¡Deja que el mundo se lamente! ¡Deja que llore sus lágrimas fáciles!
¡Mi dolor será mudo!
—¿Qué digo?
¡Dios! ¡Dios! —¡Dios ten piedad! ¿Me he vuelto loco
y debería escupir el rosario?
¿Tanto me he encogido? Será de Dios
que yo también pudiera sentir esa frenética fe cuyo roce
hace temporal el dolor más duradero;
aunque deba caminar un rato, como es costumbre,
¡con salvaje lamento! Yo también podría llorar
donde el mundo llora y cuelga sus lastimosas coronas
por sus nuevos muertos! No la Verdad, sino la Fe, es
eso lo que mantiene al mundo vivo. Si de repente
la fe disminuyera, —esa fe inconsciente
que debe, lo sé, ser la piedra angular
de todos los creyentes, —los pájaros que ahora vuelan sin temor
caerían en terror sobre la tierra;
los peces se ahogarían; y las riendas gobernantes
se enredarían en las frenéticas manos de Dios
¡y los mundos galopan de cabeza a la destrucción!
¡Oh Dios, lo veo ahora, y mi cerebro enfermo
se tambalea y se desvanece! Cuántas veces destella
sobre mi esta falta de aliento de visión repentina
en la que veo al universo desenrollarse
ante mí como un pergamino y leo a partir de ahí
Caos y Maldición, donde los planetas indefensos giran
confusamente, dando vueltas y vueltas, vueltas y vueltas,
como perinolas en una mesa, ganando velocidad
con cada giro, para vacilar en el borde
por un instante —haciendo un repaso— y para estremecerse
y sacudirse hacia adelante fuera de la vista en el siguiente—
Ah, estoy agotado —estoy cansado—
es demasiado —no soy más que carne y hueso,
y debo dormir. Aunque estuvieras muerta otra vez,
no soy más que carne y sangre y debo dormir.
Edna St. Vincent Millay, Rockland, 1892- Austerlitz, 1950
De Renascence and Other Poems, Harper & Brothers Publishers, 1917
versión ©Silvia Camerotto
Interim
The room is full of you! As I came in
And closed the door behind me, all at once
A something in the air, intangible,
Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick! —
Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed
Each other room's dear personality.
The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers,—
The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death—
Has strangled that habitual breath of home
Whose expiration leaves all houses dead;
And wheresoe'er I look is hideous change.
Save here. Here 'twas as if a weed-choked gate
Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped
Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange,
Sweet garden of a thousand years ago
And suddenly thought, "I have been here before!"
You are not here. I know that you are gone,
And will not ever enter here again.
And yet it seems to me, if I should speak,
Your silent step must wake across the hall;
If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes
Would kiss me from the door.—So short a time
To teach my life its transposition to
This difficult and unaccustomed key!—
The room is as you left it; your last touch—
A thoughtless pressure, knowing not itself
As saintly—hallows now each simple thing;
Hallows and glorifies, and glows between
The dust's grey fingers like a shielded light.
There is your book, just as you laid it down,
Face to the table,—I cannot believe
That you are gone!—Just then it seemed to me
You must be here. I almost laughed to think
How like reality the dream had been;
Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still.
That book, outspread, just as you laid it down!
Perhaps you thought, "I wonder what comes next,
And whether this or this will be the end";
So rose, and left it, thinking to return.
Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed
Out of the room, rocked silently a while
Ere it again was still. When you were gone
Forever from the room, perhaps that chair,
Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while,
Silently, to and fro...
And here are the last words your fingers wrote,
Scrawled in broad characters across a page
In this brown book I gave you. Here your hand,
Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down.
Here with a looping knot you crossed a "t,"
And here another like it, just beyond
These two eccentric "e's." You were so small,
And wrote so brave a hand!
How strange it seems
That of all words these are the words you chose!
And yet a simple choice; you did not know
You would not write again. If you had known—
But then, it does not matter,—and indeed
If you had known there was so little time
You would have dropped your pen and come to me
And this page would be empty, and some phrase
Other than this would hold my wonder now.
Yet, since you could not know, and it befell
That these are the last words your fingers wrote,
There is a dignity some might not see
In this, "I picked the first sweet-pea to-day."
To-day! Was there an opening bud beside it
You left until to-morrow? —O my love,
The things that withered, —and you came not back
That day you filled this circle of my arms
That now is empty. (O my empty life!)
That day—that day you picked the first sweet-pea,—
And brought it in to show me! I recall
With terrible distinctness how the smell
Of your cool gardens drifted in with you.
I know, you held it up for me to see
And flushed because I looked not at the flower,
But at your face; and when behind my look
You saw such unmistakable intent
You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips.
(You were the fairest thing God ever made,
I think.) And then your hands above my heart
Drew down its stem into a fastening,
And while your head was bent I kissed your hair.
I wonder if you knew. (Beloved hands!
Somehow I cannot seem to see them still.
Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust
In your bright hair.) What is the need of Heaven
When earth can be so sweet? —If only God
Had let us love,—and show the world the way!
Strange cancellings must ink th' eternal books
When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right!
That first sweet-pea! I wonder where it is.
It seems to me I laid it down somewhere,
And yet, —I am not sure. I am not sure,
Even, if it was white or pink; for then
'Twas much like any other flower to me
Save that it was the first. I did not know
Then, that it was the last. If I had known—
But then, it does not matter. Strange how few,
After all's said and done, the things that are
Of moment.
Few indeed! When I can make
Of ten small words a rope to hang the world!
"I had you and I have you now no more."
There, there it dangles, —where's the little truth
That can for long keep footing under that
When its slack syllables tighten to a thought?
Here, let me write it down! I wish to see
Just how a thing like that will look on paper!
"I had you and I have you now no more."
O little words, how can you run so straight
Across the page, beneath the weight you bear?
How can you fall apart, whom such a theme
Has bound together, and hereafter aid
In trivial expression, that have been
So hideously dignified?—Would God
That tearing you apart would tear the thread
I strung you on! Would God—O God, my mind
Stretches asunder on this merciless rack
Of imagery! O, let me sleep a while!
Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back
In that sweet summer afternoon with you.
Summer? Tis summer still by the calendar!
How easily could God, if He so willed,
Set back the world a little turn or two!
Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again!
We were so wholly one I had not thought
That we could die apart. I had not thought
That I could move, —and you be stiff and still!
That I could speak, —and you perforce be dumb!
I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof
In some firm fabric, woven in and out;
Your golden filaments in fair design
Across my duller fibre. And to-day
The shining strip is rent; the exquisite
Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart
Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled
In the damp earth with you. I have been tom
In two, and suffer for the rest of me.
What is my life to me? And what am I
To life,—a ship whose star has guttered out?
A Fear that in the deep night starts awake
Perpetually, to find its senses strained
Against the taut strings of the quivering air,
Awaiting the return of some dread chord?
Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor;
All else were contrast,—save that contrast's wall
Is down, and all opposed things flow together
Into a vast monotony, where night
And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,
Are synonyms. What now—what now to me
Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers
That clutter up the world? You were my song!
Now, let discord scream! You were my flower!
Now let the world grow weeds! For I shall not
Plant things above your grave—(the common balm
Of the conventional woe for its own wound!)
Amid sensations rendered negative
By your elimination stands to-day,
Certain, unmixed, the element of grief;
I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth
With travesties of suffering, nor seek
To effigy its incorporeal bulk
In little wry-faced images of woe.
I cannot call you back; and I desire
No utterance of my immaterial voice.
I cannot even turn my face this way
Or that, and say, "My face is turned to you";
I know not where you are, I do not know
If Heaven hold you or if earth transmute,
Body and soul, you into earth again;
But this I know:—not for one second's space
Shall I insult my sight with visionings
Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed
Beholds, self-conjured, in the empty air.
Let the world wail! Let drip its easy tears!
My sorrow shall be dumb!
—What do I say?
God! God! —God pity me! Am I gone mad
That I should spit upon a rosary?
Am I become so shrunken? Would to God
I too might feel that frenzied faith whose touch
Makes temporal the most enduring grief;
Though it must walk a while, as is its wont,
With wild lamenting! Would I too might weep
Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous wreaths
For its new dead! Not Truth, but Faith, it is
That keeps the world alive. If all at once
Faith were to slacken, —that unconscious faith
Which must, I know, yet be the corner-stone
Of all believing,—birds now flying fearless
Across would drop in terror to the earth;
Fishes would drown; and the all-governing reins
Would tangle in the frantic hands of God
And the worlds gallop headlong to destruction!
O God, I see it now, and my sick brain
Staggers and swoons! How often over me
Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight
In which I see the universe unrolled
Before me like a scroll and read thereon
Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl
Dizzily round and round and round and round,
Like tops across a table, gathering speed
With every spin, to waver on the edge
One instant—looking over—and the next
To shudder and lurch forward out of sight—
Ah, I am worn out—I am wearied out—
It is too much—I am but flesh and blood,
And I must sleep. Though you were dead again,
I am but flesh and blood and I must sleep.
And closed the door behind me, all at once
A something in the air, intangible,
Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick! —
Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed
Each other room's dear personality.
The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers,—
The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death—
Has strangled that habitual breath of home
Whose expiration leaves all houses dead;
And wheresoe'er I look is hideous change.
Save here. Here 'twas as if a weed-choked gate
Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped
Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange,
Sweet garden of a thousand years ago
And suddenly thought, "I have been here before!"
You are not here. I know that you are gone,
And will not ever enter here again.
And yet it seems to me, if I should speak,
Your silent step must wake across the hall;
If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes
Would kiss me from the door.—So short a time
To teach my life its transposition to
This difficult and unaccustomed key!—
The room is as you left it; your last touch—
A thoughtless pressure, knowing not itself
As saintly—hallows now each simple thing;
Hallows and glorifies, and glows between
The dust's grey fingers like a shielded light.
There is your book, just as you laid it down,
Face to the table,—I cannot believe
That you are gone!—Just then it seemed to me
You must be here. I almost laughed to think
How like reality the dream had been;
Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still.
That book, outspread, just as you laid it down!
Perhaps you thought, "I wonder what comes next,
And whether this or this will be the end";
So rose, and left it, thinking to return.
Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed
Out of the room, rocked silently a while
Ere it again was still. When you were gone
Forever from the room, perhaps that chair,
Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while,
Silently, to and fro...
And here are the last words your fingers wrote,
Scrawled in broad characters across a page
In this brown book I gave you. Here your hand,
Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down.
Here with a looping knot you crossed a "t,"
And here another like it, just beyond
These two eccentric "e's." You were so small,
And wrote so brave a hand!
How strange it seems
That of all words these are the words you chose!
And yet a simple choice; you did not know
You would not write again. If you had known—
But then, it does not matter,—and indeed
If you had known there was so little time
You would have dropped your pen and come to me
And this page would be empty, and some phrase
Other than this would hold my wonder now.
Yet, since you could not know, and it befell
That these are the last words your fingers wrote,
There is a dignity some might not see
In this, "I picked the first sweet-pea to-day."
To-day! Was there an opening bud beside it
You left until to-morrow? —O my love,
The things that withered, —and you came not back
That day you filled this circle of my arms
That now is empty. (O my empty life!)
That day—that day you picked the first sweet-pea,—
And brought it in to show me! I recall
With terrible distinctness how the smell
Of your cool gardens drifted in with you.
I know, you held it up for me to see
And flushed because I looked not at the flower,
But at your face; and when behind my look
You saw such unmistakable intent
You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips.
(You were the fairest thing God ever made,
I think.) And then your hands above my heart
Drew down its stem into a fastening,
And while your head was bent I kissed your hair.
I wonder if you knew. (Beloved hands!
Somehow I cannot seem to see them still.
Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust
In your bright hair.) What is the need of Heaven
When earth can be so sweet? —If only God
Had let us love,—and show the world the way!
Strange cancellings must ink th' eternal books
When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right!
That first sweet-pea! I wonder where it is.
It seems to me I laid it down somewhere,
And yet, —I am not sure. I am not sure,
Even, if it was white or pink; for then
'Twas much like any other flower to me
Save that it was the first. I did not know
Then, that it was the last. If I had known—
But then, it does not matter. Strange how few,
After all's said and done, the things that are
Of moment.
Few indeed! When I can make
Of ten small words a rope to hang the world!
"I had you and I have you now no more."
There, there it dangles, —where's the little truth
That can for long keep footing under that
When its slack syllables tighten to a thought?
Here, let me write it down! I wish to see
Just how a thing like that will look on paper!
"I had you and I have you now no more."
O little words, how can you run so straight
Across the page, beneath the weight you bear?
How can you fall apart, whom such a theme
Has bound together, and hereafter aid
In trivial expression, that have been
So hideously dignified?—Would God
That tearing you apart would tear the thread
I strung you on! Would God—O God, my mind
Stretches asunder on this merciless rack
Of imagery! O, let me sleep a while!
Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back
In that sweet summer afternoon with you.
Summer? Tis summer still by the calendar!
How easily could God, if He so willed,
Set back the world a little turn or two!
Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again!
We were so wholly one I had not thought
That we could die apart. I had not thought
That I could move, —and you be stiff and still!
That I could speak, —and you perforce be dumb!
I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof
In some firm fabric, woven in and out;
Your golden filaments in fair design
Across my duller fibre. And to-day
The shining strip is rent; the exquisite
Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart
Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled
In the damp earth with you. I have been tom
In two, and suffer for the rest of me.
What is my life to me? And what am I
To life,—a ship whose star has guttered out?
A Fear that in the deep night starts awake
Perpetually, to find its senses strained
Against the taut strings of the quivering air,
Awaiting the return of some dread chord?
Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor;
All else were contrast,—save that contrast's wall
Is down, and all opposed things flow together
Into a vast monotony, where night
And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,
Are synonyms. What now—what now to me
Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers
That clutter up the world? You were my song!
Now, let discord scream! You were my flower!
Now let the world grow weeds! For I shall not
Plant things above your grave—(the common balm
Of the conventional woe for its own wound!)
Amid sensations rendered negative
By your elimination stands to-day,
Certain, unmixed, the element of grief;
I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth
With travesties of suffering, nor seek
To effigy its incorporeal bulk
In little wry-faced images of woe.
I cannot call you back; and I desire
No utterance of my immaterial voice.
I cannot even turn my face this way
Or that, and say, "My face is turned to you";
I know not where you are, I do not know
If Heaven hold you or if earth transmute,
Body and soul, you into earth again;
But this I know:—not for one second's space
Shall I insult my sight with visionings
Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed
Beholds, self-conjured, in the empty air.
Let the world wail! Let drip its easy tears!
My sorrow shall be dumb!
—What do I say?
God! God! —God pity me! Am I gone mad
That I should spit upon a rosary?
Am I become so shrunken? Would to God
I too might feel that frenzied faith whose touch
Makes temporal the most enduring grief;
Though it must walk a while, as is its wont,
With wild lamenting! Would I too might weep
Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous wreaths
For its new dead! Not Truth, but Faith, it is
That keeps the world alive. If all at once
Faith were to slacken, —that unconscious faith
Which must, I know, yet be the corner-stone
Of all believing,—birds now flying fearless
Across would drop in terror to the earth;
Fishes would drown; and the all-governing reins
Would tangle in the frantic hands of God
And the worlds gallop headlong to destruction!
O God, I see it now, and my sick brain
Staggers and swoons! How often over me
Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight
In which I see the universe unrolled
Before me like a scroll and read thereon
Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl
Dizzily round and round and round and round,
Like tops across a table, gathering speed
With every spin, to waver on the edge
One instant—looking over—and the next
To shudder and lurch forward out of sight—
Ah, I am worn out—I am wearied out—
It is too much—I am but flesh and blood,
And I must sleep. Though you were dead again,
I am but flesh and blood and I must sleep.
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