At the Meeting of Seven Valleys

At the meeting of seven valleys in the west, I came upon a host of silent souls, Seated beside still waters on the grass. It was a place of memories and tears— Terrible tears. I rested in a wood, And there the bird that mourns for Itys sang— Itys that touched the tears of all the world. But climbing onward toward the purple peaks, I passed, on silent feet, white multitudes, Beyond the reach of peering memories, Lying asleep upon the scented banks, Their bodies burning with celestial fire. A mighty awe came on me at the thought— The strangeness of the beatific sleep, The vision of God, the mystic bread of rest.