[BNP/E3, 49A1 – 12]

 

Thou didst roll in the slough

 

Let me kiss thy brow.

_______________________________

And do I wake or sleep or live

For death being but relation

Are thy the dead who are without

The pale of unity

Or are the things both more and short?

 

That what hath been should be no more

As if the seas should cease to roar,

And winds be winds yet seek to blow,

Oh, ‘tis a torture to the wind

 

February 1906.

 

Far more than man can guess or find

By senseless Faith or Science blind

Into the light or mild know.

___

Her body too whence ought is fled

With a dark pain our soul doth strike

It lies the scene yet many unlike upon that bed

 

And does she wake or does she sleep

Or is there a strange {…} apparent

Up in {…} a |*contact| to keep

__________

I look upon her, she is dead.

To think a spirit here is fled.

__________

And through what we have seen we see

Yet ought that was hath ceased to be.

 

It is a thought too deep for sense

Too wild, too mystically intense,

That she, with whom I ran and walked

Who laughed, who {…} talked

Is gone and now perchance doth rot

Ay, rottenness hath seized and got rot

A gentle thing that {…} not

Yet that shall † forgot

Of every sense that our soul knows

And men have named in verse or prose

Of every inner sense that comes 

Of his {…} seeing

Most awful is this sense of unbeing.

 

[12v]

 

M’s SP (?)

Yes

 

Epitaph of Shakespeare.

“Accurst be he that moves my bones,” and why?

Because perchance the power doth not lie

Within poor man unscathed to touch the fame

That held a soul so great. Those bones might have

{…} trace of the overgreat soul

That made all human things into a whole[1] 

That made a consciousness if over feeling right or die as they

(‘twas said) who see the face of God.

The Sense be too great for its flesh-above

And we might like a {…} die

_______________________________________________

Shelley.

The fame that bore a spirit than all higher

Was hunt, its ashes borne in air and sea;

‘Tis well thus. Pure and elemental is fire

And wind and ocean are of the most fire.

As for thyself, soft child of love and dream

With whom no earthly house can well rejoice

So far wert thou above the things that seem.

That thee I am content

To know[2] when Music with my thoughts is blent

And when Music speaks without a voice

I feel when utmost Lone forgets a voice

All poems on this sheet

between January and February 25

 

More probably in February 

to March 

 

And so we |traveling| thee

Might with a newer consciousness away  

 

 
[1] That made all human things into a whole /That made the deepest thought its willing slave.\
[2] know /touch\