Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The RiddleJohn Cowper Powys
“I
The greater actress?” Pardon me—both they,
And you and I, seem dreams to me today….
Vague images of sleep to me;
And my real self moves all alone,
Between huge pyramids of stone,
To where a crouching figure lies
With furtive-cruel, half-closed eyes.
And with that crouchéd thing I hold
Converse a hundred centuries old.
She asks. I answer. And not one
Of all her riddles do I shun.
I look into her half-closed eyes
And menace her with my replies.
I am alone. She is alone.
And round us pyramids of stone.
She asks—are good and ill the same?
She asks—has Nature any aim?
She asks—is God a ghost or flame?
And I—I answer; and the sun
Sinks—and a thousand years are one—
One year—one night….
The greater actress?” Pardon me; both they,
And you and I, seem dreams to me today.