[BNP/E3, 31A – 25][1]

Isis

In the cool pillared portico

That gives white entrance to her moods

Start‑lovely stand in a mute row

The statues of her pulchritudes.

Twelve are they and the eye doth gather

Their separate seen lives into one sense;

The thirteenth, which is all together,

Means her soul and its confidence.

Five statues mean the senses five,

The other Seven are her mysteries of Thought.

The thirteenth seems somehow to live

Apart from her life and know it not.

The summer lies outside her shades,

The breezes creep into her halls,

And from ther windowed {…} the glades

Are something that the soul recalls.

She built her house with heavenly types

Of building in her inner seeing.

The sun makes the long pillars stripes

On the cold, hard floors of her beeing.

Yet she is absent and despairing,

Her statues await her New Hour,

And from the shadows of her hearing

The whisper of the drones doth flower.

This was not anyhow nor when.

All was as cool as a dreams are cool

When breezes creep up to to our pain

And we are laid beside and pool,

And a far larger pool arises

In our restored imagining,

And all our body's sense despises

Our innate lack of fin and wing.

Still by her portico I stopped.

The shadows there were clear and fast.

Though dim Slightly as with a kiss, I hoped,

And like a swallow God’s love passed.

25-5-1915

 
[1] Poema riscado no original.