when, If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks, Knows it the last mask off and the face plain? The true mask feels no inside to the mask But looks out of the mask by co-masked eyes. Whatever consciousness begins the task The task’s accepted use to sleepness ties. Like a child frighted by its mirrored faces, Our souls, that children are, being thought-losing, Foist otherness upon their seen grimaces And get a whole world on their forgot causing; And, when a thought would unmask our soul’s masking, Itself goes not unmasked to the unmasking. 

 

IX.

 Oh to be idle loving idleness! But I am idle all in hate of me; Ever in action’s dream, in the false stress Of purposed action never set to be. Like a fierce beast self-penned in a bait-lair, My will to act binds with excess my action, Not-acting coils the thought with raged despair, And acting rage doth paint despair distraction. Like someone sinking in a treacherous sand, Each gesture to deliver sinks the more; The struggle avails not, and to raise no hand, Though but more slowly useless, we’ve no power. Hence live I the dead life each day doth bring, Repurposed for next day’s repurposing. 

 

X.

 As to a child, I talked my heart asleep With empty promise of the coming day, And it slept rather for my words made sleep Than from a thought of what their sense did say. For did it care for sense, would it not wake And question closer to the morrow’s pleasure? Would it not edge nearer my words, to take The promise in the meting of its measure? So, if it slept, ’twas that it cared but for The present sleepy use of promised joy, Thanking the fruit but for the forecome flower Which the less active senses best enjoy. Thus with deceit do I detain the heart Of which deceit’s self knows itself a part. 

 

XI.

 Like to a ship that storms urge on its course, By its own trials our soul is surer made. The very things that make the voyage worse Do make it better; its peril is its aid. And, as the storm drives from the storm, our heart Within the peril disimperilled grows; A port is near the more from port we part— The port whereto our driven direction goes. If we reap knowledge to cross-profit, this From storms we learn, when the storm’s height doth drive— That the black presence of its violence is The pushing promise of near far blue skies. Learn we but how to have the pilot-skill, And the storm’s very might shall mate our will. 

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