The Veiled Image At Saïs

A younger man, whom Learning’s fiery thirst

Propelled to Saïs in far Egypt, there

To master hidden wisdom of the priests,

Already had with hasty mind traversed

A few degrees; his seeker-lust e’er tugged

Him on, and hardly could the hierophant

Appease th’ impatient striver. “What have I,

If I’ve not everything,” the youngster spoke.

“Is there perhaps a Lesser here and More?

Then is thy truth, like to the senses’ bliss,

Naught but a sum, that one can more or less

Possess and ne’ertheless possess it still?

Is’t not unique and indivisible?

Take any tone from out a harmony,

Take any hue from out the rainbow–And

All, that remains to thee, is naught, so long

The tones and colors lack the lovely All.”

As they so spoke, they stood alone and still

In a remote rotunda, where unto

The younster’s eyes there fell an image, veiled,

Of giant stature.  He, in wonderment,

Then glances to the leader and exclaims:

“What is it, that behind this veil doth hide?”

“The truth,” is the reply.– “What?” shouts the lad,

“I strive for truth alone, and this is it

Before me, that one thus conceals from me?”

“Discuss that with the Deity,” retorts

The hierophant. “ ‘No mortal man,’ says she,

‘May raise this veil, ’til I do so myself.

And who with sacrilegious, guilty hand

Doth lift the pure, forbidden veil too soon,

He,’ says the Goddess”– “Well?”–

“ ‘He sees the truth.’ ”

“A most peculiar oracle!  And thou,

Then thou hadst never lifted it thyself?”

“I?  Truly not!  Nor was I tempted to.”

– “I grasp it not. If nothing but this thin

Partition separates me from the truth–”

“That, and a law,” his leader interrupts.

“More weighty is this flimsy gauze, my son,

Than thou believest–For thy hand ’tis light

No doubt, yet very heavy for thy conscience.”

The youth went to his home, all full of thought

The burning appetite for knowledge steals

His sleep, he tosses feverishly upon

The couch and then at midnight rouses up.

Involuntarily his timid tread

Conducts him to the temple.  There he scales

The wall with ease, a plucky leap transports

The daring one to the rotunda’s midst.

Now here he stands, the solitary one

Embraced so foully by the lifeless hush,

That only hollow echoes of his steps

Disrupt within the secret, private vaults.

From over through the cupola’s op’ning casts

The moon a pallid shine of silver-blue,

And frightful, like a god attending, gleams

The figure in its lengthy veil throughout

The gloomy darkness of the central vault.

He treads up toward it with uncertain step,

Already will the brazen hand go touch

The Holy One, when hot and cool convulse

Throughout his bones and he is thrust away

By unseen arm.  “Thou wretch, what wilt thou do?”

So calls a faithful voice within his soul.

“Wilt thou then the All-Holy One thus tempt?”

‘No mortal man,’ proclaimed the oracle’s mouth,

’May raise this veil, ’til I do so myself.’

But ne’ertheless did not this same mouth add:

’Who raises up this veil, shall see the truth?’ ”

“Behind it be, what may!  I’ll raise it up.”

He shouts it with loud voice–”I want to see it.”

See it!

Long after him a mocking echo yells.

He speaks it and has stripped away the veil.

“And now,” you ask, “what shows itself to him?”

I do not know.  Insensible and pale,

The priests discovered him upon the morn

Outstretched before the pedestal of Isis.

And that which he had seen and come to know,

His tongue has ne’er confessed.  Eternally

Departed was his life’s serenity,

His grief swept him into an early grave.

“Woe unto him,” this was his warning word,

When pressed by questioners impetuous,

“Woe unto him, who comes to truth through guilt:

For him ’twill be delightful nevermore.”