II
Wrapped in the wool of wizardry I sit;
Mantled in mystery; the little things
That I have made through weariness of wit,
Stars, cells, and whorls, all wonder in their wings!
These Gods and men, these laws, these hieryglyphs
And sigils of my fancy seem to spire
In worship up mine everlasting cliffs
I built between my will and my desire.
They reach me not; I made a monstrous crowd,
Innumerable monuments of thought,
But none is equal; this high head is bowed
In vain to the wise God it would have wrought,
Had not—Who sitteth on the Holy Throne
Thereby must make himself to be alone.
Mantled in mystery; the little things
That I have made through weariness of wit,
Stars, cells, and whorls, all wonder in their wings!
These Gods and men, these laws, these hieryglyphs
And sigils of my fancy seem to spire
In worship up mine everlasting cliffs
I built between my will and my desire.
They reach me not; I made a monstrous crowd,
Innumerable monuments of thought,
But none is equal; this high head is bowed
In vain to the wise God it would have wrought,
Had not—Who sitteth on the Holy Throne
Thereby must make himself to be alone.
— 84 —
