Menken, Adah Isaacs
|HEMLOCK IN THE FURROWS.|
O CROWNLESS soul of Ishmael!
Uplifting and unfolding the white tent of dreams
against the sunless base of eternity!
Looking up through thy dumb desolation for white
hands to reach out over the shadows, downward, from the
golden bastions of God's eternal Citadel!
Praying for Love to unloose the blushing bindings of
his nimble shaft and take thee up to his fullest fruition!
Poor Soul! hast thou no prophecy to gauge the distance
betwixt thee and thy crown?
Alas! there is none.
Only a golden-rimmed shadow that went before thee,
marking in its tide barren shoals and dust.
At last resting its bright length down in the valley of
Foolish soul! let slip the dusty leash.
Cease listening along the borders of a wilderness for the
lost echoes of life.
Drift back through the scarlet light of Memory into the
darkness once more.
A corpse hath not power to feel the trying of its hands.