EUREKA
LAST night there came a dream—that I, At length from earthly cerements free, A pilgrim of Eternity, Had reached the place prepared for me : A vault, it seemed, of lustrous slate, Whose planes beyond the pitch of sight Converged, unswerving, immaculate, Till lost in endless light : Not of the Sun—or of Righteousness. No seraph here, o'er harp-strings bowed, Hymned on of rapture, praise or peace, But—" Silence ! No loiterers allowed ! "
In jet-black characters, I scanned Incised upon the porcelain floor.
" All hope abandon ! " one unmanned Could not have harrowed more : For, stretching far as eye could see, Beneath that flat of leprous glare A maze of immense machinery Hummed in the ozoned air : Prodigious wheels of steel and brass ; And—ranged along the un-windowed walls— Engrossed with objects in metal and glass, Stooped spectres, in spotless overalls.
Knees quaking, dazed, affrighted eyes, I turned to the Janitor and cried, " Is this, friend, Hell or Paradise ? " And, sneering, he replied : " Terms trite as these the ignorant On earth may yet delude ; Here, sin ' and ' saint ' and sycophant' Share exile with ' the Good.'
" Be grateful that the state of bliss Henceforth—perchance—reserved for thee, Is sane and sanative as this And void of fatuous fantasy.
" Here the Mechanic God reveals, As only mechanism can, Mansions to match the new ideals Of his co-worker, Man.
" On strict probation, you are now To toil with yonder bloodless moles— These skiagraphs will show you how— On shaping human souls. . . ."
Whereat I woke ; and, cold as stone, Found that I lay in the hazardous light Of earth's all-faithful moon ; A flit-moth in its rays showed white ; I heard the night-jar's croon.
And there—my handmade pot, my jug Beside the old grained washstand stood. There, too, my once-gay threadbare rug, The fickle moonbeams wooed ; And . . . God forgive the dream-crazed loon That found them very good !
WALTER DE LA MARE.
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