Xvi

Let it pass, the dreary brow, Let the dismal face go by, Will it lead me to the grave? Then I lose it: it will fly: Can it overlast the nerves? Can it overlive the eye? But the other, like a star, Thro' the channel windeth far Till it fade and fail and die, To its Archetype that waits Clad in light by golden gates, Clad in light the Spirit waits To embrace me in the sky.