92 MYSTERIES:
V.
THE ULTIMATE VOYAGE.
HE wandering waters move about the world,
And lap the sand, with quietest complaint
Borne on the wings of dying breezes up, |
To where we make toward the wooded top
Of yonder menacing hill. The night is fallen
Starless and moonless, black beyond belief,
Tremendous, only just the ripple keeps,
With music borrowed from the soul of God,
Our souls from perishing in the inane.
We twain go thither, knowing no desire
To lead us, but some strong necessity
Urges, as lightning thunder, our slow steps
Upward. For on the pleasant meadow-land
That slopes to sunny bays, and limpid seas
That breathe like maidens sleeping, for their breast
Is silver with the sand that lies below,
Where our storm-strengthened dragon rests at last,
And by whose borders we have made a home,
More like a squirrel’s bower than a house.
For in this blue Sicilian summertime
The trees arch tenderly for lovers’ sleep,
And all the interwoven leaves are fine