'Tis a strange place, this Limbo! -- not a Place, Yet name it so; -- where Time and weary Space Fettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing, Strive for their last crepuscular half-being; -- Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands Barren and soundless as the measuring sands, Not mark'd by flit of Shades, -- unmeaning they As moonlight on the dial of the day! But that is lovely -- looks like human Time, -- An old man with a steady look sublime, That stops his earthly task to watch the skies; But he is blind -- a statue hath such eyes; -- Yet having moonward turn'd his face by chance, Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance, With scant white hairs, with foretop bald and high, He gazes still, -- his eyeless face all eye; -- As 'twere an organ full of silent sight, His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light! -- Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb -- He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on him! No such sweet sights doth Limbo den immure, Wall'd round, and made a spirit-jail secure, By the mere horror of blank Naught-at-all, Whose circumambience doth these ghosts enthral. A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation, Yet that is but a Purgatory curse; Hell knows a fear far worse, A fear -- a future state; -- 'tis positive Negation! |