History poems/ page 3 of 51 /
When we are old, our eyes will open wide and everything we knewwill exit through them, standing here and there, domestic order oftables, chairs and bed making room for what we are -- a rosethat passed between our hands will flower there, a place where wewere walking in a change of light, a star that we had shared when wewere far apart -- and we will gaze upon them, moving through our eyes
First Voice. Maybe they linger by the way.
One gathers up his purple gown;
One leans and mutters by the wall -
He dreads the weight of mortal hours.
I stood on Brocken's sovran height, and saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills
A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides
The silent spring that feeds its whispering tides?
Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breeding Earth,
Tell the half-hinted story of thy birth,
And calm the noisy champions who have thrown
The book of types against the book of stone!