Here At Right Of The Entrance This Bronze Head, Human, Superhuman, A Bird'S Round Eye, Everything Else Withered And Mummy-Dead. What Great Tomb-Haunter Sweeps The Distant Sky (Something May Linger There Though All Else Die;) And Finds There Nothing To Make Its Tetror Less I{Hysterica Passio} Of Its Own Emptiness? No Dark Tomb-Haunter Once; Her Form All Full As Though With Magnanimity Of Light, Yet A Most Gentle Woman; Who Can Tell Which Of Her Forms Has Shown Her Substance Right? Or Maybe Substance Can Be Composite, Profound Mctaggart Thought So, And In A Breath A Mouthful Held The Extreme Of Life And Death. But Even At The Starting-Post, All Sleek And New, I Saw The Wildness In Her And I Thought A Vision Of Terror That It Must Live Through Had Shattered Her Soul. Propinquity Had Brought Imagiation To That Pitch Where It Casts Out All That Is Not Itself: I Had Grown Wild And Wandered Murmuring Everywhere, "My Child, My Child! ' Or Else I Thought Her Supernatural; As Though A Sterner Eye Looked Through Her Eye On This Foul World In Its Decline And Fall; On Gangling Stocks Grown Great, Great Stocks Run Dry, Ancestral Pearls All Pitched Into A Sty, Heroic Reverie Mocked By Clown And Knave, And Wondered What Was Left For Massacre To Save.