Poem of the day

The Convergence of the Twain
(Lines on the loss of the “Titantic”)
by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

         In a solitude of the sea
         Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

         Steel chambers, late the pyres
         Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

         Over the mirrors meant
         To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls — grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

         Jewels in joy designed
         To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

         Dim moon-eyed fishes near
         Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: “What does this vaingloriousness down here?” …

         Well: while was fashioning
         This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

         Prepared a sinister mate
         For her — so gaily great —
A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

         And as the smart ship grew
         In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

         Alien they seemed to be;
         No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history,

         Or sign that they were bent
         By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one august event,

         Till the Spinner of the Years
         Said “Now!” And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

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