Xxviii

Then (sickening even while I spoke): "Let me alone! No answer, pray, To this! I know what thou wilt say! All still is earth's,--to know, as much As feel its truths, which if we touch With sense, or apprehend in soul, What matter? I have reached the goal-- 'Whereto does knowledge serve!' will burn My eyes, too sure, at every turn! I cannot look back now, nor stake Bliss on the race, for running's sake. The goal's a ruin like the rest!" "And so much worse thy latter quest," (Added the voice,) "that even on earth-- Whenever, in man's soul, had birth Those intuitions, grasps of guess, Which pull the more into the less, Making the finite comprehend Infinity,--the bard would spend Such praise alone, upon his craft, As, when wind-lyres obey the waft, Goes to the craftsman who arranged The seven strings, changed them and rechanged-- Knowing it was the South that harped. He felt his song; in singing, warped; Distinguished his and God's part: whence A world of spirit as of sense Was plain to him, yet not too plain, Which he could traverse, not remain A guest in:--else were permanent Heaven on the earth its gleams were meant To sting with hunger for full light,-- Made visible in verse, despite The veiling weakness,--truth by means Of fable, showing while it screens,-- Since highest truth, man e'er supplied, Was ever fable on outside. Such gleams made bright the earth an age; Now the whole sun's his heritage! Take up thy world, it is allowed, Thou who hast entered in the cloud!"