THE MASKED FACE

I found me in a great surging space,

At either end a door,

And I said: “What is this giddying place,

With no firm-fixed floor,

That I knew not of before?”

“It is Life,” said a mask-clad face.

I asked: “But how do I come here,

Who never wished to come;

Can the light and air be made more clear,

The floor more quietsome,

And the doors set wide? They numb

Fast-locked, and fill with fear.”

The mask put on a bleak smile then,

And said, “O vassal-wight,

There once complained a goosequill pen

To the scribe of the Infinite

Of the words it had to write

Because they were past its ken.”