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POET: Even the silent stars whisper unto me, "Thou art consenting." The waters and the many-tongued leaves Call continually to me, "How long? How long? "How long, brother, ere you come?" Out of the shadows an army of ghosts beckon to me, With twisted limbs and distorted mouths. "How long, brother, ere you come?"

TRUTH: Will you come, or will you deny your divine vocation?

POET: I will come, oh my brothers and sisters ; I will come.

IV.

POET: Hark to the laughers.

Here, where Silence has sat down with covered head, I am pursued by mocking laughter.

TRUTH: Your weak and helpless sisters Whom the Holy Ones have cast out.

POET: I, too, have cast them out. I have consented. Oh, my sisters, fountains of Life, Wondrous weavers of the soul ; Lamps of the Future and mysterious moulds Of the generations.

You are the torch-bearers who, in infinite procession, Approach from the sunrise. And in infinite procession diminish afar, into the sunset.

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