The Ivory Gate

I must have slumbered at the wheel

     For suddenly I felt the weight

Of water underneath the keel

     Lift the Adventure through the Gate

          of Ivory. Oh fatal hour

     When Dream hath won such power!

Far out to starboard the fell cliffs

     Frown from their ice-topped bastions;

To port-in hateful hieroglyphs

     The savage eddies suck the sun's

          Rays to their doom. Ahead

          The Harbour of the Dead

     Juts forth its welcoming horns. Alas

     That ever in the wizard glass

Of that renowned astrologer

I peered, and through the blur

     Saw the Adventure safely moored,

Success for ever assured

Beneath the towers of that tremendous Queen

          Of cities; "Yea, such towns have been

(Quoth that most ancient venerable sage

     Bearded snow-white with age)

"Or, so much is reported by our spies,

And so much is recorded in these tomes

But—in these modern days? Myself surmise

     They, like the Undines, Sylphs, and Gnomes

And Salamanders, are but fancies wrought

     Cunningly into fact. I trust to nought

In this world fashioned by fantastic lies

Even in matters vouched by ears and eyes

     And fingers. So

If you are set on going, go,

And the Gods prosper you!" On that

     I made my bow,

     And left the Presence. So—

          Where am I now?

These huge crags overhang, this harbour gapes,

These eddies whirl, no less and no more real

Than all those other unsubstantial shapes

Of which I was so certain just before

     The Adventure put to sea.

     What truth there be

In aught, is only for the time. And so

     All that we know

Is just the Present—just the thought that dies

Even as it is born! Here, straight ahead,

     The Harbour of the Dead

Welcomes. Those curves?—Is this the breast

     Of a young slim princess

Like the New Moon? Here may

     I find ripe rest

     And unsought happiness,

Here let Adventure ride at anchor, let

     The Murmur of the waters gently lap

Her bows! The lips of my Princess are set

     On mine—what Heaven hath a happier nap?

In this caress—let Time itself obey!—

The hours of Sunday morning slip away.

[378]