Margaret Fullers transnationales Projekt : Selbstbildung, feminine ...

Anhang 297
For other pilgrims saw not why she wept,
And, walking in their paths, she sang to them
Of their own hope, but non had ear of hers
Nor cleared her eye, nor prophesied her song
In which the key of all her being lay:
True! they were hers, because they were from God,
But none of her minstrels, companions non,
Their office different, hope less deep: less wild
Melodia sometimes felt, but never thought.
And now she sang, a full-voiced descant song,
But often lost the key and changed the strain
For the key-note was placed in other spheres
Where echo her soul knew, but her ear miss read;
When lo! a note sent back, vibration felt,
Startled her soul to sudden revelation,
And near her stood her angel and her friend
Respective, bounteous, radiant, and profound,
Not quite unknown the form; –
For in a marble quarry wandering,
Once her keen voice startled it from rock;
But she in childish marble silent grew
And paused to gaze, – as ceased her heavenward song
The form drew back into its cradle tomb,
For ages to await the sculptor’s thought.
Nor could her voluntary song recall,
And haunting hope grew sister to despair.
But now the hour had come; –
And through the skilful wounds and splintering bows
Which nature uses most, loving the most,
Slowly had come forth, of Godlike mould,
The Paria, from Paros’ whiteness named
Sepulchral whiteness of the holiest tomb.
How met that music and that purity
They knew not; meeting never can be known
As separations are; it was, it lived,
It is, and what is known, in being known, is not.
But not a moment could they be detained,
When thus united, from their proper home,
One marble gleam, one short and lovely note,
The dazzling gate was passed, the robe of primal life put on.
Too soon, too keen! the work of Love is still
To antedate our Fates; this union pure,