In The Adytum

The door is ajar-- The door of my soul swung on the hinges of doubt; It is ever ajar and waits for a Caller-- A Caller, in the night, or the day--I know not the time that he cometh, Oh whether he cometh at all. I crouch in my being, implacable, receptive, the ears of my soul in rigid prick, Catching whiffs of the Verities borne from seas remote that mirror the catchpenny world in its depths. Sundered from all I sit, To none abnegated, Before my door standing ajar, The door of my soul swung on the hinges of doubt.

What finger-marks these on the white knob of my door? Narrow, black finger-prints, telltale of thinkers and ghosts, Or maybe somnambules who have walked out of the world, Or he, beloved of my soul: Has he called?--where loafed I then? Who wills may enter, But none have I seen-- Seen enter the door that’s ajar, The door of my soul swung on the hinges of doubt.

THE WAY OUT: BIO.

Like a polished pearl hid in a pocket, Like lighted tapirs set in the murk of a crypt, Like the flicker of phosphor on dun seas, Like a meteor athwart the heavens of Cimmeria-- So the Secret of my soul shines for me in this timeless Night.