THE visitors who never come
Have flocked across the floor,
The clock that never has been wound
Goes ticking as before,
And all the mute gigantic shapes
Are loud beyond the door.
The finger now at ten to one
A final flaw detects,
The blinded eye in sharp delight
A printed page inspects,
And gelded in their infancy
The ancients speak of sex.
Is this the path to paradise,
Is this the way to hell,
Or does the spirit soaring up
Forget the time it fell
And hear the thunder of the gods
In every dinner bell?
(To ask them this, to ask them that,
And never to reply
For fear they peer behind the words
And guess the reason why
We walk the darkened labyrinth
That lies within the eye.)