THERE are those who deem they know me well, And smile as I tell them "no!" Who think they may clearly and carelessly tell Each living drop in my heart's deep well, And lightly enter its inmost cell; But little (how little!) they know! How should they know me? My soul is a maze Where I wander alone, alone; Never a footfall there was heard, Never a mortal hand hath stirred The silence-curtain that hangs between Outer and inner, nor eye hath seen What is only and ever my own. They have entered indeed the vestibule, For its gate is opened wide, High as the roof, and I welcome all Who will visit my warm reception-hall, And utter a long and loving call To some who are yet outside. I would lead each guest to a place of rest; All should be calm and bright; Then a lulling flow of melody, And a crystal draught of sympathy, And odorous blossoms of kindly thought, With golden fruit of deed be brought From the chambers out of sight. Some I would take with a cordial hand, And lead them round the walls; Showing them many a storied screen, Many a portrait, many a scene, Deep-cut carving, and outlined scroll; Passing quickly where shadows roll, Slowly where sunshine falls. They do not know and they cannot see That strong-hinged, low-arched door, Though I am passing in and out, From gloom within to light without, Or from gloom without to light within; None can ever an entrance win, None! for evermore. It is a weird and wondrous realm, Where I often hold my breath At the unseen things which there I see, At the mighty shapes which beckon to me, At the visions of woe and ecstasy, At the greetings of life and death. They rise, they pass, they melt away, In an ever-changing train; I cannot hold them or tell their stay, Or measure the time of their fleeting sway; As grim as night, and as fair as day, They vanish and come again. I wander on through the strange domain, Marveling ever and aye; Marveling how around my feet All the opposites seem to meet, The dark, the light, the chill, the glow, The storm, the calm, the fire, the snow, How can it be? I do not know. Then how, oh how, can they? What am I, and how? If reply there be, In unsearchable chaos 'tis cast. Though the soaring spirit of restless man Might the boundary line of the universe scan, And measure and map its measureless plan, The gift of self-knowledge were last! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE: THE MEDITERRANEAN by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE ASSAULT HEROIC by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES THE CREMATION OF SAM MCGEE by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE HAYMAKERS' SONG, FR. KING RENE'S HONEYMOON by GORDON BOTTOMLEY A GIRL'S SONG IN THE WILDERNESS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH MUNUSCULUM by WHEATON H. BREWER A DEAD ROSE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |