Chapter XVIII

But still I live within this place of pain;
And still I seek for an eternal aim,
For, after death, mere Beauty is in vain.
What is there deeper flowing from this same
Unceasing spring? Quick, let me tear the veil!
There sat a statue on an ebon frame--
A statue in that house of pain. So pale
The brow and still the nostrils, Death it seemed;
But in the face, I read that holy tale
That lay on the Madonna's face where gleamed
The Heavenly light from the young Christ's aureole.
Through all the halls of pain, the brilliance beamed;
And every discord out of chaos stole
To swell the throbbing organ's thunderous roll.