The Dweller in Darkness

By George Sterling

The cryptic brain, hid in its house of bone,
    Has windows opening on dusk or day,
    Whence the five senses peer, then turn to say
What the mysterious Beyond has shown;
And whether eagle fly and beetle crawl,
    Or the grey thrush sit fluting in her tree,
    Or sea-winds bear the saltness of the sea
To tasting lips, they tell the Master all.
    But the pent heart shall never see the day,
    From womb to dust, from birth to death's dismay.
Whatever joy or pain the world may send,
    It finds no respite in that living grave,
    But, housed in darkness like a blinded slave,
Toils in unending midnight till the end.

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