The Adventure of the Apocalypse

Veilless word

Mine be the Veilless word,

Pure spirit grown!

No more in the mould of stone

Blindly bestirred

At the foot of the mountain-muse

Galling to its peak

The chasmed cries and hues

That wander and seek—-

No more in the dusky bark

Built round dream-day,

Or even the quivering coat

Of bright and dark

Hungers for unseen prey.

To free the stainless note

Each swathe must fall aswoon;

Nor must the glorious skin

Whose passionate pores outbreathe

The splendoured soul within

Be left—the very last

Subtlest and gauziest sheath

Has keenly to be cast

Down if the hidden glow

Would bare the deathless tune

That lay like a floating moon

In the pool of night below!

Stripped of all vesture-sign

And symbol-robe,

Sheer sense of the Divine

Must burn and throb,

Etching with naked flame

The immortal summit-name

Whose heaven unheard

Awoke the abysm's word!

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