Page 760 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

darkness, the willer with the willed, and in an instant (fiat!)
light shall flood the world. Did heart leap to heart? Nay,
fair reader. In a breath ‘twas done but—hold! Back! It
must not be! In terror the poor girl flees away through the

murk. She is the bride of darkness, a daughter of night.
She dare not bear the sunnygolden babe of day. No,
Leopold. Name and memory solace thee not. That
youthful illusion of thy strength was taken from thee—and
in vain. No son of thy loins is by thee. There is none now
to be for Leopold, what Leopold was for Rudolph.
The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence
that is the infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the soul is
wafted over regions of cycles of generations that have
lived. A region where grey twilight ever descends, never
falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her dusk,
scattering a perennial dew of stars. She follows her mother
with ungainly steps, a mare leading her fillyfoal. Twilight
phantoms are they, yet moulded in prophetic grace of
structure, slim shapely haunches, a supple tendonous neck,
the meek apprehensive skull. They fade, sad phantoms: all
is gone. Agendath is a waste land, a home of screechowls
and the sandblind upupa. Netaim, the golden, is no more.
And on the highway of the clouds they come, muttering
thunder of rebellion, the ghosts of beasts. Huuh! Hark!

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