THE Soul is its own destiny: Fate is the Soul in motion: It hath nor bound of space nor time; It is the Infinite. Duration that doth mock all measurement Becometh conscious—is the everlasting Soul. Time is a cunning fancy; The immortal gods Have wrought the subtle fabric of the hours, To blind the Soul that looketh out On its immensity. But all in vain: The introverted vision gazes on infinity; Alone, supreme, the Soul forever dwells. Empires have birth, they do decay and die; Advancing years, like phantoms, Sweep forever down the abyss of time And slumber on the bosom of Forgetfulness. Forever falls the sand, the glass is never empty, Fed from the running fingers of Eternity. The sands are ages: Forever weep the Klepsydræ; Their tears the universal grief express, And drop into the bosom of Eternity. But what are empires and the endless years Unto the Soul that holdeth all! Behold the infinite, far-shining, everlasting Soul— Behold the Human Soul! |