Guest at a monastery in the hills,I stepped, when all the monks had gone to pray,Into a book-lined room. Along the walls,Glittering in the light of fading day,I saw a multitude of vellum spinesWith marvelous inscriptions. Eagerly,Impelled by rapturous curiosity,I picked the nearest book, and read the lines:The Squaring of the Circle — Final Stage.I thought: I’ll take this and read every page!A quarto volume, leather tooled in gold,Gave promise of a story still untold:How Adam also ate of the other tree…The other tree? Which one? The tree of life?Is Adam then immortal? Now I could seeNo chance had brought me to this library.I spied the back and edges of a folioAglow with all the colors of the rainbow,Its hand-painted title stating a decree:The interrelationships of hues and sound:Proof that for every color may be foundIn music a proper corresponding key.Choirs of colors sparkled before my eyesAnd now I was beginning to surmise:Here was the library of Paradise.To all the questions that had driven meAll answers now could be given me.Here I could quench my thirst to understand,For here all knowledge stood at my command.There was provision here for every need:A title full of promise on each bookResponded to my every rapid look.Here there was fruit to satisfy the greedOf any student’s timid aspirations,Of any master’s bold investigations.Here was the inner meaning, here the key,To poetry, to wisdom, and to science.Magic and erudition in allianceOpened the door to every mystery.These books provided pledges of all powerTo him who came here at this magic hour.A lectern stood near by; with hands that shookI placed upon it one enticing book,Deciphered at a glance the picture writing,As in a dream we find ourselves recitingA poem or lesson we have never learned.At once I soared aloft to starry spacesOf the soul, and with the zodiac turned,Where all the revelations of all races,Whatever intuition has divined,Millennial experience of all nations,Harmoniously met in new relations,Old insights with new symbols recombined,So that in minutes or in hours as I readI traced once more the whole path of mankind,And all that men have ever done and saidDisclosed its inner meaning to my mind.I read, and saw those hieroglyphic formsCouple and part, and coalesce in swarms,Dance for a while together, separate,Once more in newer patterns integrate,A kaleidoscope of endless metaphors — —And each some vaster, fresher sense explores.Bedazzled by these sights, I looked awayFrom the book to give my eyes a moment’s rest,And saw that I was not the only guest.An old man stood before that grand arrayOf tomes. Perhaps he was the archivist.I saw that he was earnestly intentUpon some task, and I could not resistA strange conviction that I had to knowThe manner of his work, and what it meant.I watched the old man, with frail hand and slow,Remove a volume and inspect what stoodWritten upon its back, then saw him blowWith pallid lips upon the title — couldA title possibly be more alluringOr offer greater promise of enduringDelight? But now his finger wiped acrossThe spine. I saw it silently eraseThe name, and watched with fearful sense of lossAs he inscribed another in its placeAnd then moved on to smilingly effaceOne more, but only a newer title to emboss.For a long while I looked at him bemused,Then turned, since reason totally refusedTo understand the meaning of his actions,Back to my book — I’d seen but a few lines — —And found I could no longer read the signsOr even see the rows of images.The world of symbols I had barely enteredThat had stirred me to such transports of bliss,In which a universe of meaning centered,Seemed to dissolve and rush away, careenAnd reel and shake in feverish contractions,And fade out, leaving nothing to be seenBut empty parchment with a hoary sheen.I felt a hand upon me, felt it slideOver my shoulder. The old man stood besideMy lectern, and I shuddered whileHe took my book and with a subtle smileBrushed his finger lightly to elideThe former title, then began to writeNew promises and problems, novel inquiries,New formulas for ancient mysteries.Without a word, he plied his magic style.Then, with my book, he disappeared from sight.
