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The well-sheathed limb, that would speak of a world indeed
Of warm humanity, manners, arts, and things,
Yet from whose gross and now fantastic bulk
All spirit, life, and goodness had passed out
With that black boat into void nothingness.
Fond are the moods of lovers, yet not vain;
Nor seldom in the bosom of one thought
Lie other thoughts that are of deeper truth.
From ledge to ledge, abysm within abysm
(As, say they, in the marvellous lunar sphere,
The huge vulcanian chasms, gulf swallowing gulf),
Descends the inward deep of spiritual truth,
Wherein the soul has power to plunge and sound
Through passion. Not at once she plumbs the depth.
Long stood I on the pier, and night stole on,
And from behind me (as I saw not yet)
Lamp after lamp in bedroom casements died,
And sound dropped after sound: in the silent streets
The watchman hooded now the useless lights;
And when I turned, behind me, as before,
Was vacancy, and darkness, and blind silence.
There were no mountains, lights, nor breathing town,
Even my own limb was dyed in vacancy.
I say not then a thought of deeper truth
