Truth

The Truth that lingers in the heart’s secret places,The Truth that gleams of a sudden on Grail-faces,The Truth that has run so many torch-lit races,Shone suddenly on me,And henceforth was to beBone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, soul of my soul, unto that last far dawn which is eternity.Our souls were worn like a gaunt dungeon-keepWashed by the sea; we sowed not, nor did reap;Our Gods were on a journey or asleep;—When like a surging fireA spirit from earth’s ages did suspire,And each soul’s tower put forth leaves and blossomed,Like a young tree, and in our souls again there was desire.The Spring lay luxuriantly the earth over,White roses broke like foam, and the hot cloverSeemed heavy with spent passion like a loverLanguorous, till the nightAnd the swift breezes whiteCame like a cooling bell and rain, and our eyes grew brighterWith the new gleam of that celestial light.Suddenly there was Romance laughing again,And poetry in the strange ancient ways of men,We were as ones on peaks in Darien,And Love with a new gloryOpened in song and story,Like a flower in a wan waste by the sea,And we with our wide eyes looked forward from our star-touched promontory.The hands that moulded dust out of the dust,Scorching the sky with the iron that turns to rust,Fashioning brazen Gods to feed their lust,These with their feet of clay,In the slow alchemy of a timeless day,Caught like the hunter of the east new beautyAnd were like figures of the dawn and spray.Time has not memory enough for these.De Gustibus through shadowy autumn trees,Drinking life fully to its twisted lees,Nor Time, nor drear regretHolds enough memory ever to forget,These that are metaphors of immortality,Enduring beyond the finality of any long and last sunset.The Truth that lingers in the heart’s secret places,For this is there an hour glass that effaces,Or waves to wash away to sunless spacesTruth that is more than Time,More than the mere infernal and sublime,Truth that is strong as Death, and light as Life,And passionate as the last great poet’s last rhyme?MAXWELL E. FOSTER.

The Truth that lingers in the heart’s secret places,

The Truth that gleams of a sudden on Grail-faces,

The Truth that has run so many torch-lit races,

Shone suddenly on me,

And henceforth was to be

Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, soul of my soul, unto that last far dawn which is eternity.

Our souls were worn like a gaunt dungeon-keepWashed by the sea; we sowed not, nor did reap;Our Gods were on a journey or asleep;—When like a surging fireA spirit from earth’s ages did suspire,And each soul’s tower put forth leaves and blossomed,Like a young tree, and in our souls again there was desire.

Our souls were worn like a gaunt dungeon-keep

Washed by the sea; we sowed not, nor did reap;

Our Gods were on a journey or asleep;—

When like a surging fire

A spirit from earth’s ages did suspire,

And each soul’s tower put forth leaves and blossomed,

Like a young tree, and in our souls again there was desire.

The Spring lay luxuriantly the earth over,White roses broke like foam, and the hot cloverSeemed heavy with spent passion like a loverLanguorous, till the nightAnd the swift breezes whiteCame like a cooling bell and rain, and our eyes grew brighterWith the new gleam of that celestial light.

The Spring lay luxuriantly the earth over,

White roses broke like foam, and the hot clover

Seemed heavy with spent passion like a lover

Languorous, till the night

And the swift breezes white

Came like a cooling bell and rain, and our eyes grew brighter

With the new gleam of that celestial light.

Suddenly there was Romance laughing again,And poetry in the strange ancient ways of men,We were as ones on peaks in Darien,And Love with a new gloryOpened in song and story,Like a flower in a wan waste by the sea,And we with our wide eyes looked forward from our star-touched promontory.

Suddenly there was Romance laughing again,

And poetry in the strange ancient ways of men,

We were as ones on peaks in Darien,

And Love with a new glory

Opened in song and story,

Like a flower in a wan waste by the sea,

And we with our wide eyes looked forward from our star-touched promontory.

The hands that moulded dust out of the dust,Scorching the sky with the iron that turns to rust,Fashioning brazen Gods to feed their lust,These with their feet of clay,In the slow alchemy of a timeless day,Caught like the hunter of the east new beautyAnd were like figures of the dawn and spray.

The hands that moulded dust out of the dust,

Scorching the sky with the iron that turns to rust,

Fashioning brazen Gods to feed their lust,

These with their feet of clay,

In the slow alchemy of a timeless day,

Caught like the hunter of the east new beauty

And were like figures of the dawn and spray.

Time has not memory enough for these.De Gustibus through shadowy autumn trees,Drinking life fully to its twisted lees,Nor Time, nor drear regretHolds enough memory ever to forget,These that are metaphors of immortality,Enduring beyond the finality of any long and last sunset.

Time has not memory enough for these.

De Gustibus through shadowy autumn trees,

Drinking life fully to its twisted lees,

Nor Time, nor drear regret

Holds enough memory ever to forget,

These that are metaphors of immortality,

Enduring beyond the finality of any long and last sunset.

The Truth that lingers in the heart’s secret places,For this is there an hour glass that effaces,Or waves to wash away to sunless spacesTruth that is more than Time,More than the mere infernal and sublime,Truth that is strong as Death, and light as Life,And passionate as the last great poet’s last rhyme?

The Truth that lingers in the heart’s secret places,

For this is there an hour glass that effaces,

Or waves to wash away to sunless spaces

Truth that is more than Time,

More than the mere infernal and sublime,

Truth that is strong as Death, and light as Life,

And passionate as the last great poet’s last rhyme?

MAXWELL E. FOSTER.

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