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MORTA.
By this closed eye that knows no sight,Sister, thou readest all I am.
"From Time's dark fleece grave Nona's hand Draws out the slender thread of life; Whirling the humming wheel of strife,Decima winds the tortured strand.
"But I am Morta,—she who rends, With instant touch its length in twain; And there is no more bliss nor painForever, when the spinning ends.
"Who hears my solemn words, must rise And follow, follow where I lead: A captive, never to be freed,With voiceless throat and sightless eyes."
And art thou Morta? O most rare, Most piercing melody of voice! As if the heart had sung, "Rejoice!"Even while the lips had wailed "Despair!"
Nona, arise; put by the fleece,— Life fails with torture overmuch; Stay, Decima, thy guiding touch,And let the troublous spinning cease:
