DOWN in its crystal hollow Gleams the ebon well of ink: In the deepest drop lies lurking The thought all men shall think. Fair on the waiting tablet Lies the empty paper's space: Out of its snow shall flush a word Like an angel's earnest face. Who in those depths shall cast his line For the gnome that hugs that thought: Who from the snowy field shall charm That flower of truth untaught? Not in the lore of the ancients, Not in the yesterday: On the lips of the living moments The gods their message lay. Somewhere near it is waiting, Like a night-wind wandering free, Seeking a mouth to speak through, -- Whose shall the message be? It may steal forth like a flute note, It may be suddenly hurled In blare upon blare of a trumpet blast, To startle and stir the world. Hark! but just on the other side Some thinnest wall of dreams, Murmurs a whispered music, And softest rose-light gleams. Listen, and watch, and tell the world What it almost dies to know: Or wait -- and the wise old world will say, "I knew it long ago." |