| STILL deep into the West I gazed; the light | |
| Clear, spiritual, tranquil as a bird | |
| Wide-winged that soars on the smooth gale and sleeps, | |
| Was it from sun far-set or moon unrisen? | |
| Whether from moon, or sun, or angel’s face | 5 |
| It held my heart from motion, stayed my blood, | |
| Betrayed each rising thought to quiet death | |
| Along the blind charm’d way to nothingness, | |
| Lull’d the last nerve that ached. It was a sky | |
| Made for a man to waste his will upon, | 10 |
| To be received as wiser than all toil, | |
| And much more fair. And what was strife of men? | |
| And what was time? | |
| |
| Then came a certain thing. | |
| Are intimations for the elected soul | 15 |
| Dubious, obscure, of unauthentic power | |
| Since ghostly to the intellectual eye, | |
| Shapeless to thinking? Nay, but are not we | |
| Servile to words and an usurping brain, | |
| Infidels of our own high mysteries, | 20 |
| Until the senses thicken and lose the world, | |
| Until the imprisoned soul forgets to see, | |
| And spreads blind fingers forth to reach the day, | |
| Which once drank light, and fed on angels’ food? | |
| |
| It happened swiftly, came and straight was gone. | 25 |
| |
| One standing on some aery balcony | |
| And looking down upon a swarming crowd | |
| Sees one man beckon to him with finger-tip | |
| While eyes meet eyes; he turns and looks again— | |
| The man is lost, and the crowd sways and swarms. | 30 |
| Shall such an one say, ‘Thus ’tis proved a dream, | |
| And no hand beckoned, no eyes met my own?’ | |
| Neither can I say this. There was a hint, | |
| A thrill, a summons faint yet absolute, | |
| Which ran across the West; the sky was touch’d, | 35 |
| And failed not to respond. Does a hand pass | |
| Lightly across your hair? you feel it pass | |
| Not half so heavy as a cobweb’s weight, | |
| Although you never stir; so felt the sky | |
| Not unaware of the Presence, so my soul | 40 |
| Scarce less aware. And if I cannot say | |
| The meaning and monition, words are weak | |
| Which will not paint the small wing of a moth, | |
| Nor bear a subtile odour to the brain, | |
| And much less serve the soul in her large needs. | 45 |
| I cannot tell the meaning, but a change | |
| Was wrought in me; it was not the one man | |
| Who came to the luminous window to gaze forth, | |
| And who moved back into the darkened room | |
| With awe upon his heart and tender hope; | 50 |
| From some deep well of life tears rose; the throng | |
| Of dusty cares, hopes, pleasures, prides fell off, | |
| And from a sacred solitude I gazed | |
| Deep, deep into the liquid eyes of Life. | |
