Passsage to more than India!
Are thy wings plumed indeed for such far flights?
O soul, voyagest thou indeed on voyages like those?
Disportest thou on waters such as those?
When alone, the mountain valleys
succumb to prism channels
and undecorated, we pine
in solemn verse: this cold earth,
a primeval dome of space,
where suns and oceans meet—and now
to surface rising.
Sure, souls could trade the index
of thy cavernous tide,
for rivers, streams, and hallowed countryside.
The lunar eclipse of night,
swathed in winds of West, South and East,
the Orient, a spiced perfume,
and regions, the fetters of skill,
the influence of history, lands, and music—
what light could shade a master’s bed.
The bottles of burgundy wine
endowed the cook,
and a bronzed pot of leeks,
with arduous hide.
We stand in arms,
the light to bend us all:
the journey, a stone’s throw,
the world’s end.
We travel to the sun,
and find the wells of glory.
the walls, perchance, askew