Edward Rowland Sill (Эдвард Роулэнд Силл)
The Oracle
DOWN in its crystal hollow Gleams the ebon well of ink: In the deepest drop lies lurking The thought all men shall think. Fair on the waiting tablet Lies the empty paper's space: Out of its snow shall flush a word Like an angel's earnest face. Who in those depths shall cast his line For the gnome that hugs that thought? Who from the snowy field shall charm That flower of truth untaught? Not in the lore of the ancients, Not in the yesterday: On the lips of the living moments The gods their message lay. Somewhere near it is waiting, Like a night-wind wandering free, Seeking a mouth to speak through,— Whose shall the message be? It may steal forth like a flute note, It may be suddenly hurled In blare upon blare of a trumpet blast, To startle and stir the world. Hark! but just on the other side Some thinbest wall of dreams, Murmurs a whispered music, And softest rose-light gleams. Listen, and watch, and tell the world What it almost dies to know. Or wait—and the wise old world will say, "I knew it long ago."
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