名人诗歌|A Dialogue of Self and Soul

My Soul. I summon to the winding^{1 ancient stair；}

Set all your mind upon the steep ascent^2，

Upon the broken， crumbling^{3 battlement，}

Upon the breathless starlit air，

Upon the star that marks the hidden pole；

Fix every wandering thought upon

That quarter where all thought is done：

Who can distinguish darkness from the soul？

My Self. The consecrated^{4 blade upon my knees}

Is Satos ancient blade， still as it was，

Still razor-keen， still like a looking-glass

Unspotted by the centuries；

That flowering， silken， old embroidery^{5， torn}

From some court-ladys dress and round

The wooden scabbard bound and wound，

Can， tattered^{6， still protect， faded adorn7.}

My Soul. Why should the imagination of a man

Long past his prime remember things that are

Emblematical^{8 of love and war？}

Think of ancestral night that can，

If but imagination scorn the earth

And intellect its wandering

To this and that and tother thing，

Deliver from the crime of death and birth.

My Self. Montashigi， third of his family， fashioned it

Five hundred years ago， about it lie

Flowers from I know not what embroidery

Hearts purpleand all these I set

For emblems^{9 of the day against the tower}

Emblematical of the night，

And claim as by a soldiers right

A charter to commit the crime once more.

My Soul. Such fullness in that quarter overflows¹⁰

And falls into the basin of the mind

That man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind，

For intellect no longer knows

Is from the Ought， or Knower from the Known

That is to say， ascends^{11 to Heaven；}

only the dead can be forgiven；

But when I think of that my tongues a stone.

II

My Self. A living man is blind and drinks his drop.

What matter if the ditches are impure^12？

What matter if I live it all once more？

Endure that toil^{13 of growing up；}

The ignominy of boyhood； the distress¹⁴

Of boyhood changing into man；

The unfinished man and his pain

Brought face to face with his own clumsiness；

The finished man among his enemies？

How in the name of Heaven can he escape

That defiling^{15 and disfigured shape}

The mirror of malicious^{16 eyes}

Casts upon his eyes until at last

He thinks that shape must be his shape？

And whats the good of an escape

If honour find him in the wintry blast？

I am content to live it all again

And yet again， if it be life to pitch

Into the frog-spawn of a blind mans ditch，

A blind man battering^{17 blind men；}

Or into that most fecund^{18 ditch of all，}

The folly^{19 that man does}

Or must suffer， if he woos

A proud woman not kindred of his soul.

I am content to follow to its source，

Every event in action or in thought；

Measure the lot； forgive myself the lot！

When such as I cast out remorse²⁰

So great a sweetness flows into the breast

We must laugh and we must sing，

We are blest by everything，

Everything we look upon is blest.