The sole true Something–This ! In Limbo Den
It frightens Ghosts as Ghosts here frighten men–
For skimming in the wake it mock’d the care
Of the old Boat-God for his Farthing Fare ;
Tho’ Irus’ Ghost itself he ne’er frown’d blacker on,
The skin and skin-pent Druggist crost the Acheron,
Styx, and with Puriphlegethon Cocytus,–
(The very names, methinks, might thither fright us–)
Unchang’d it cross’d–& shall some fated Hour
Be pulveris’d by Demogorgon’s power
And given as poison to annilate Souls–
Even now It shrinks them ! they shrink in as Moles
(Nature’s mute Monks, live Mandrakes of the ground)
Creep back from Light–then listen for its Sound ;–
See but to dread, and dread they know not why–
The natural Alien of their negative Eye.
‘Tis a strange place, this Limbo !–not a Place,
Yet name it so ;–where Time & weary Space
Fettered from flight, with night-mair sense of fleeing,
Strive for their last crepuscular half-being ;–
Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands
Barren and soundless as the measuring sands,
Not mark’d by flit of Shades,–unmeaning they
As Moonlight on the dial of the day !
But that is lovely–looks like Human Time,–
An Old Man with a steady Look sublime,
That stops his earthly Task to watch the skies ;
But he is blind–a Statue hath such Eyes ;–
Yet having moon-ward turn’d his face by chance,
Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance,
With scant white hairs, with foretop bald & high,
He gazes still,–his eyeless Face all Eye ;–
As ’twere an organ full of silent Sight,
His whole Face seemeth to rejoice in Light !
Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb,
He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on him !
No such sweet sights doth Limbo Den immure,
Wall’d round, and made a Spirit-jail secure,
By the mere Horror of blank Naught-at-all,
Whose circumambience doth these Ghosts enthral.
A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation,
Yet that is but a Purgatory curse ;
Hell knows a fear far worse,
A fear–a future fate.–‘Tis positive Negation !
(Samuel Coleridge)
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