XI.
Within my life another life runs deep,
To which, at blessed seasons, open wide
Silent, mysterious portals. There reside
These shapes, that cautiously about me creep,
This iron mask of birth, and death, and sleep,
Familiar as the day and open-eyed;
And there, broods endless calm. And though it glide
Ofttimes beyond my sight, and though I keep
Its voice no more, I know the current flows
Pulsing to far-off harmonies, and light
With most unearthly heavens. The world but throws
A passing spell thereon—as winter, bright,
Pale feudatory of the arctic Night,
Swathes with white silence all these murmurous boughs.
To which, at blessed seasons, open wide
Silent, mysterious portals. There reside
These shapes, that cautiously about me creep,
This iron mask of birth, and death, and sleep,
Familiar as the day and open-eyed;
And there, broods endless calm. And though it glide
Ofttimes beyond my sight, and though I keep
Its voice no more, I know the current flows
Pulsing to far-off harmonies, and light
With most unearthly heavens. The world but throws
A passing spell thereon—as winter, bright,
Pale feudatory of the arctic Night,
Swathes with white silence all these murmurous boughs.
