No More Learning

. "
"And the moon," said I--not thus to be outdone--
"What of the moon? Over the dusty plane-trees
Which crouch in the dusk above their feeble lanterns,
Each coldly lighted by his tiny faith;
The moon, the waxen moon, now almost full,
Creeps whitely up. . . . Westward the waves of cloud,
Vermilion, crimson, violet, stream on the air,
Shatter to golden flakes in the icy green
Translucency of twilight. . . . And the moon
Drinks up their light, and as they fade or darken,
Brightens. . . . O monstrous miracle of the twilight,
That one should live because the others die!
"
"Strange too," she answered, "that upon this azure
Pale-gleaming ghostly stream, impalpable--
So faint, so fine that scarcely it bears up
The petals that the lantern strews upon it,--
These great black barges float like apparitions,
Loom in the silver of it, beat upon it,
Moving upon it as dragons move on air. "
"Thus always," then I answered,--looking never
Toward her face, so beautiful and strange
It grew, with feeding on the evening light,--
"The gross is given, by inscrutable God,
Power to beat wide wings upon the subtle.
Thus we ourselves, so fleshly, fallible, mortal,
Stand here, for all our foolishness, transfigured:
Hung over nothing in an arch of light
While one more evening like a wave of silence
Gathers the stars together and goes out. "


V

Now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds
Whirs and whirls in the heavens with dipping rim;
Against the ice-white wall of light in the west
Skeleton trees bow down in a stream of air.
Leaves, black leaves and smoke, are blown on the wind;
Mount upward past my window; swoop again;
In a sharp silence, loudly, loudly falls
The first cold drop, striking a shriveled leaf. . . .
Doom and dusk for the earth! Upward I reach
To draw chill curtains and shut out the dark,
Pausing an instant, with uplifted hand,
To watch, between black ruined portals of cloud,
One star,--the tottering portals fall and crush it.
Here are a thousand books! here is the wisdom
Alembicked out of dust, or out of nothing;
Choose now the weightiest word, most golden page,
Most somberly musicked line; hold up these lanterns,--
These paltry lanterns, wisdoms, philosophies,--
Above your eyes, against this wall of darkness;
And you'll see--what? One hanging strand of cobweb,
A window-sill a half-inch deep in dust . . .
Speak out, old wise-men!