Poem 49 (Tall rows of pillars—stems of flowering…)

Tall rows of pillars—stems of flowering stone Sprang up around me in their ordered growth. Here sat a maid, and there an ancient crone— The straight, bright shafts of light illumined both. No shadow was there and no sound—the hum Of brooding silence kept the temple dumb.

Three tombs of Kings, each with his corners three, Shut out three spaces of the golden sky. Clear, flat, and bright, they hid no mystery, But painted mummies, of a scarlet dye, That lay embalmed there many a long term, Safe from unkindly damp and creeping worm.

Deep set beneath a sibyl's wrinkled brow, The ancient woman's eyes were full of song. They held the voice of Time; and even now I mind me how the burden rolled along; For I forgot the music of the birds, And music's self, and music knit to words.

Then did I turn me to the maiden's eyes, And they were as the sea, brimming and deep. Within them lay the secret of the skies, The rhythmical tranquillity of sleep. They were more quiet than a windless calm Among the isles of spices and of balm.

Now music is an echo in mine ear, And common stillness but the lack of noise; For the true music I shall never hear, Nor the true silence, mother of all joys. They dwell apart on that enchanted ground Where not a shadow falls and not a sound.