The House of Dust; a symphony

Conrad Potter Aiken

Capitolo 49


Or clouds blown windily on a sky to midnight,
Or ropes of music sprinkled in to expedite the obscurity,
Or a sound that sings pluvius. . .
We open us to us the eyes and we fix the obscurity of wrapping,
It is again digita our dreams.



DIVIDES IV.


ME.  CLAIRVOYANT

'This envelope that you say has anything in him
What it belonged once to Your corpse child--or anything
Did he/she know, was it affectionate of?  Anything that he remembers?--
The soul flies far, and we can only call him/it
From things these like. . . a photo, a letter,
Ribbon, or it enchants, or clock. . . '

. . .  Wind slightly flows, the slow and long equal wind,
On the low roofs white with snow;
Gusts, cold clouds and that it brings on the ocean,
One to their time melt and they flow,--

One to the dripping time on trees and towers,
Winding and sparkling in the auctions of sun;
Flows of wind, clouds that it brings;  the shades that expedite
Flows under their one to the time. . .

' . . . A spirit darkens in front of me. . . it is the spirit
What in the meat You called Your child. . . A spirit
Young and strong and beautiful. . .

He says that he is happy, very it is honorable;
It forgives and you/he/she is forgiven. . . rain and wind
Don't make him/it perplexed. . . storm and dust forgotten. .
The bright wheels in wheels of time are broken
And it placed apart. . . '

'Ask to him because he made the thing he did!'

'He is unhappy.  This thing, he says, it transcends her:
Dust cannot contain that shines over the dust. . .
What it seems that calamity is less less than a sigh;
What it seems that dishonor is not anything.'

'Asks to him if what he has made evil is there,
And if she anchors loves him!'

'He tells him she is there, and it still loves him,--
Not as her it did, but as every love of spirits. . .
A cloud of spirits has gathered around him.
They praise him/it to Them and they call him/it, they do them him honor;
He is more beautiful, he shines on them.'

. . .  Wind slightly flows, the deep and long trembling wind,
On the low roofs white with snow. . .
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