Page 59 - GALIET HEAVEN´S SCROLL IV

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
William Butler Yeats,
The Lake Isle of Innisfree55
Say Sí to poesy’s deep mercy and bliss — a salvation and a resurrection to Parra, Paz, Neruda, Mistral, Borges, Vallejos, Martí.
Beyond the quixotic, yet elusive dream of a universal secular or divine ontology, of feeling the Being-Word in transcendence, or immanence, or both, or somewhere in the midst of these, in possibly an inter-subjective realm, we toss and turn in our labyrinth’s dead end. For so our tragic libraries weep, from Egypt’s quest for its Ba, to the violent curses of Esarhaddon and of Yahweh to His Hebrew coterie, to Gilgamesh’s immortal quest, to Aeschylus and to Christ, to Shakespeare and to Lope de Vega, to Hobbes and to Blake, and on and on, for
55 Yeats, William. The Poems. Ed. By Richard J. Finneran. New York: Scribner, 1989. 545.
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