THE bow of promise, this lost flaring star, <br />Terror and hope are in mid-heaven; but She, <br />The mighty-wing'd crown'd Lady Melancholy, <br />Heeds not. O to what vision'd goal afar <br />Does her thought bear those steadfast eyes which are <br />A torch in darkness? There nor shore nor sea, <br />Nor ebbing Time vexes Eternity, <br />Where that lone thought outsoars the mortal bar. <br />Tools of the brain--the globe, the cube--no more <br />She deals with; in her hand the compass stays; <br />Nor those, industrious genius, of her lore <br />Student and scribe, thou gravest of the fays, <br />Expect this secret to enlarge thy store; <br />She moves through incommunicable ways.<br /><br />Edward Dowden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/durer-s-melencholia/
