"The other meets me in the public throng; Her hair streams backward from her loose attire; She hath a trumpt and an eye of fire; She points me downard, steadily and long:- "There is thy grave - arise, my son, be strong! Hands are upon thy crown - awake, aspire To immortailty; heed not the lyre Of the Enchantress not her poppy song, But in the stillness of the summer calm Tremble for what is Godlike in thy being. Listen a while, and thou shalt hear the psalm Of victory sung by creatures past they seeing; And from far battle-fields there comes the neighing Of dreadful onset, though the air is balm." - George MacDonald, "My Two Geniuses, II"
Posted on: Tue, 17 Sep 2013 23:25:28 +0000
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