The Dark One is calling,
        I know, for his dreams
Around me are falling
        In musical streams.

A diamond is burning
        In depths of the Lone
Thy spirit returning
        May claim for its throne.

In flame-fringed islands
        Its sorrows shall cease,
Absorbed in the silence
        And quenched in the peace.

Come lay thy poor head on
        My breast where it glows
With love ruby-red on
        Thy heart for its woes.

My power I surrender: 
        To thee it is due: 
Come forth, for the splendor
        Is waiting for you.

—­The End

—­November 15, 1895-March 15, 1896

Shadow and Substance

Many are the voices that entreat and warn those who would live the life of the Magi.  It is well they should speak.  They are voices of the wise.  But after having listened and pondered, oh, that someone would arise and shout into our souls how much more fatal it is to refrain.  For we miss to hear the fairy tale of time, the aeonian chant radiant with light and color which the spirit prolongs.  The warnings are not for those who stay at home, but for those who adventure abroad.  They constitute an invitation to enter the mysteries.  We study and think these things were well in the happy prime and will be again the years to come.  But not yesterday only or tomorrow—­today, today burns in the heart the fire which made mighty the heroes of old.  And in what future will be born the powers which are not quick in the present?  It will never be a matter of greater ease to enter the path, though we may well have the stimulus of greater despair.  For this and that there are times and seasons, but for the highest it is always the hour.  The eternal beauty does not pale because its shadow trails over slime and corruption.  It is always present beneath the faded mould whereon our lives are spent.  Still the old mysterious glimmer from mountain and cave allures, and the golden gleams divide and descend on us from the haunts of the Gods.

The dark age is our darkness and not the darkness of life.  It is not well for us who in the beginning came forth with the wonder-light about us, that it should have turned in us to darkness, the song of life be dumb.  We close our eyes from the many-coloured mirage of day, and are alone soundless and sightless in the unillumined cell of the brain.  But there are thoughts that shine, impulses born of fire.  Still there are moments when the prison world reels away a distant shadow, and the inner chamber of clay fills full with fiery visions.  We choose from the traditions of the past some symbol of our greatness, and seem again the Titans or Morning Stars of the prime.  In this self-conception lies the secret of life, the way of escape and return.  We have imagined ourselves into forgetfulness, into darkness, into feebleness.  From this strange and pitiful dream of life, oh, that we may awaken and know ourselves once again.