With
days of hard travail I raised a temple. It had no doors or windows, its
walls were thickly built with massive stones.
I
forgot all else, I shunned all the world, I gazed in rapt contemplation
at the image I had set upon the altar.
It
was always night inside, and lit by the lamps of perfumed oil.
The
ceaseless smoke of incense wound my heart in its heavy coils.
Sleepless,
I carved on the walls fantastic figures in mazy bewildering
lines--winged horses, flowers with human faces, woman with limbs like
serpents.
No
passage was left anywhere through which could enter the song of birds,
the murmur of leaves or hum of the busy village.
The
only sound that echoed in its dark dome was that of incantations which I
chanted.
My
mind became keen and still like a pointed flame, my senses swooned in
ecstasy.
I
knew not how time passed till the thunderstone had struck the temple,
and a pain stung me through the heart.
The
lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carvings on the walls, like chained
dreams, stared meaningless in the light as they fain hide themselves.
I
looked at the image on the altar. I saw it smiling and alive with the
living touch of God. The night I had imprisoned had spread its wings and
vanished.