Only, as good my soul were suffered go O'er the lagune: forth fare thee, put aside-- Entrance thy synod, as a god may glide Out of the world he fills, and leave it mute For myriad ages as we men compute, Returning into it without a break [Sidenote: Being really in the flesh at Venice.] O' the consciousness! They sleep, and I awake O'er the lagune, being at Venice. Note, In just such songs as Eglamor (say) wrote With heart and soul and strength, for he believed Himself achieving all to be achieved By singer--in such songs you find alone Completeness, judge the song and singer one, And either purpose answered, his in it Or its in him: while from true works (to wit Sordello's dream-performances that will Never be more than dreamed) escapes there still Some proof, the singer's proper life was 'neath The life his song exhibits, this a sheath To that; a passion and a knowledge far Transcending these, majestic as they are, Smouldered; his lay was but an episode In the bard's life: which evidence you owed To some slight weariness, some looking-off Or start-away. The childish skit or scoff In "Charlemagne," (his poem, dreamed divine In every point except one silly line About the restiff daughters)--what may lurk In that? "My life commenced before this work," (So I interpret the significance Of the bard's start aside and look askance)-- "My life continues after: on I fare With no more stopping, possibly, no care [Sidenote: And watching his own life sometimes,] To note the undercurrent, the why and how, Where, when, o' the deeper life, as thus just now. But, silent, shall I cease to live? Alas For you! who sigh, 'When shall it come to pass We read that story? How will he compress The future gains, his life's true business, Into the better lay which--that one flout, Howe'er inopportune it be, lets out-- Engrosses him already, though professed To meditate with us eternal rest, And partnership in all his life has found?'" 'T is but a sailor's promise, weather-bound: "Strike sail, slip cable, here the bark be moored For once, the awning stretched, the poles assured! Noontide above; except the wave's crisp dash, Or buzz of colibri, or tortoise' splash, The margin 's silent: out with every spoil Made in our tracking, coil by mighty coil, This serpent of a river to his head I' the midst! Admire each treasure, as we spread The bank, to help us tell our history Aright: give ear, endeavor to descry The groves of giant rushes, how they grew Like demons' endlong tresses we sailed through, What mountains yawned, forests to give us vent Opened, each doleful side, yet on we went Till ... may that beetle (shake your cap) attest