Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/226

 Of what should be its servitor,—for sure

Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea

Contain it not, and the huge deep answer T is not in me.'

To burn with one clear flame, to stand erect

In natural honour, not to bend the knee

In profitless prostrations whose effect

Is by itself condemned, what alchemy

Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed

Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?

The minor chord which ends the harmony,

And for its answering brother waits in vain

Sobbing for incompleted melody,

Dies a Swan's death; but I the heir of pain,

A silent Memnon with blank lid-less eyes,

Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise.

The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom,

The little dust stored in the narrow urn,

The gentle XAIPE of the Attic tomb,—

Were not these better far than to return

To my old fitful restless malady,

Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery? 212