Behind The Veil Poem by Joseph Skipsey

A PHANTOM to me thou appearest
But, spite of this seeming, I know,
The magical image thou wearest
Is real as the lilies in blow—

Is as real and as fair as the fairest of all our fair lilies in blow.


Not alive to the senses external
Of hearing, the touch, or the sight;
Not aught that would yield to the carnal
Desire, a delusive delight;

But alive to the spirit art thou and a star to its path day night.


Not alive to the outer, but inner
Keen sense of the spirit; and when
I'm from the world and its din or
Low chat of most women and men,

I'm mantled thro' thee in a glory, no pencil could portray, nor pen.


Then lifted on Rapture's bright pinions
I tread the bright zones of the Blest;
I enter the azure dominions
Of those who have long been at rest

From turmoil, the strife, the opinions, by which here the Good are
opprest.


Away o'er the gold-crested mountains,
I hie, light of foot as the roe;
I drink of the pellucid fountains
That flow in the valleys below,

And swiftly both valleys and mountains with the deepest
significance glow.


Then see I expressed in those valleys;
Then see I enthroned in those hills;
In dew-adorned daffodowndillies,
And daisies that bloom by the rills—

I see one vast Soul, and that all is but what that inherent Soul wills.


Then see I—But what serves the vision
Of music-souled bard, seer, or sage,
When Bigotry, Self, Superstition,
Unite their fell forces to wage

A war upon Truth? Truth divine! and when Learning would fetter
the age!


What, what would it be to the nations
Did I give what I'd give for Love's sake?
Would they hark to the blest revelations
I'd deem it my duty to make?

They'd say I had drank of a potion should doom me to dungeon or
stake.


Yet freely this much may be spoken,
That when from her dungeon of clay
—A bird from its fetterlet broken—
The soul to the spheres wings away,

We find where go not a token of what our learned bigots portray.


There find we in joy or in sorrow
No day without night, as we're told;
No, no night on which dawneth no morrow;
But the scrolls of the past are unroll'd,

And we see, as if shown in a mirror, each fact there is there to
unfold.


On all can be seen by the spirit
Around us, above, or below;
Nay even the homes we inherit,
Are graced or defaced, gloom or glow

With merit, our merit, demerit; our joy or shame, glory or woe.


Not in dead pictures merely, but living
Bright symbols our deed speak and move;
And we see with the gifts we have given,
In the God-enshrined spirit of love,

The least of our sins, tho' forgiven, can never be cancelled Above.


There see we the unborn Hereafter,
From out the live Present is born;
That laughers are reft of their laughter,
The mask from the masker is torn;

The crafty are whipt by their craft and the scorner is met by his
scorn.


We learn this, but learn too, whatever
The strength and the hue of our creed,
A good deed's a good deed, and never
Can other be than a good deed;

That Destiny's self cannot sever nor keep from the worthy their
meed.


To clear-sighted psychist is granted
All this and things deeper to know,
That in accents of fire should be chanted
To creed-ridden mortals below,

Could feelings by which I am haunted, be taught in bright numbers
to flow.


But of this I despair; and I wander
With one, once a mortal, to find
The marvels we see, and their grandeur
Can never be shown to mankind,

Till each for himself's learned to ponder, and feel the sad fact, he
is blind.