To Robert I. Aitken

By George Sterling


The abiding marble shadows forth thy dream;
    But in what quarries of infinity
    Must spirit strive with formlessness to free
The vision ? Lo! upon the mind's extreme
It bursts from darkness like a dawn supreme—
    The rainbow of an undiscovered sea,
    A blossom of that vine of mystery
Whose roots touch night, whose flowers in morning gleam.

We are but thoughts. With music or the pen
    We tell what silences about us brood,
        And limn with masteries of hue or stone,
Set for a little in the sight of men,
    The visions of that mighty solitude
        From which we come, to which we pass, alone!

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