The Soul of Osiris

THE HOLY OF HOLIES. 117 The cry of silence, that is heard unspoken ; That, being heard, rings evermore unbroken. Silence, deep silence. Not a shudder stirs The vast demesne of unforgetful space : No comet’s lunatic rush, no meteor whirs, No star dares breathe, no planet knows his place In that supreme unquiet quietude. I am the master of my own deep mood. I am the master. Yea, no doubt I rule The whole mad universe by will extended— Who whispers then, “ O miserable fool ! This night thy might and majesty are ended ; Thy soul shall be required of thee ” ? I heard This voice, and knew it for my proper word ! Yes, mine own voice : the higher spirit speaks, Stemming the hands that guide, the arms that hold, Even the infinite brain : that spirit seeks A loftier dawn of more ephemeral gold— Ephemeral, and eternal : droop thine head, O God ! for thou must suffer this : I said ! Droop thy wide pinions, O thou mortal God ! Sink thy vast forehead, and let Life consume The miserable life thy feet have trod Beneath them, that thine own life in its doom Fall, in its resurrection to arise ; Stoop, that its holier hope may cleave the skies.