The House of Life. Sonnet 62. The Soul's Sphere
Some prisoned moon in steep cloud-fastnesses,-- Throned queen and thralled; some dying sun whose pyre Blazed with momentous memorable fire;-- Who hath not yearned and fed his heart with these? Who, sleepless, hath not anguished to appease Tragical shadow's realm of sound and sight Conjectured in the lamentable night? . . . Lo! the soul's sphere of infinite images! What sense shall count them? Whether it forecast The rose-winged hours that flutter in the van Of Love's unquestioning unrevealed span,-- Visions of golden futures: or that last Wild pageant of the accumulated past That clangs and flashes for a drowning man.
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