The Soul of Osiris

THE GATE OF THE SANCTUARY. 67 Jostlers and hurried folk and mad they are, A million actions and a single mind. “ What is thy purpose, sweet my lord ? ” I pressed One stalwart. “ Ah ! the quest,” he cried, “ the quest.” God’s heart ! the antics, as they toil and shove ! One grabs a coin, one life, another love. All shriek, “ The prize is mine ! ” as men possessed. I was not fooled at anything thereof. Rather I hated them, and scorned for slaves ; “ Fools ! all your treasure is at last the grave’s ! ” Mine eyes had fixed them on the sphinx, the sky. “ Is then this quest of immortality ? ” And echo answered from some unseen caves : Mortality ! I shrink, and wonder why. Strange I am nothing tainted with this fear Now, that had touched me first. For I am here Half-way I reckon to the field of salt, The pillar, and the bones—it was a fault I am cured of ! praise to God ! What meets mine ear, That every nerve and bone of me cries halt ? What is this cold that nips me at the throat ? This shiver in my blood ? this icy note Of awe within my agonising brain ? Neither of shame, nor love, nor fear, nor pain, Nor anything ? Has love no antidote, Courage no buckler ? Hark ! it comes again.