X

There is a stillness in the heart of sound, How dire soever, if unloosed too long. There is a time for pause in every song, And in the whirling cyclone’s heady round A core of peace. So the taut soul is bound With iron girdle, and with leathern thong To the acute wheel of the sense’s wrong Only until the creaking spring is wound. Then softening come sweet phantoms of far things, Peopling the vacancy with joys unspent, And visions of fair spaces left behind, As if the genius of the place had wings, And in the migratory hour were sent To haunt awhile the silence of the mind.

RASTATT, 30th April